


Shelley's Android

by Zycros



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Long Shot, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-05-28 07:18:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 52,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15043613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zycros/pseuds/Zycros
Summary: After the assassination of revolution leader Markus by the android known as Connor, it was destroyed and left to die in a junkyard.It leaves many open wounds, and even more open questions: Who leads the revolution now? Who was behind the assassination -- a deviant traitor, or another conspiracy? And what should one ex-alcoholic officer do when his partner comes back to him as someone else?Post-canon, Hank/Connor





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a very technical writer. Please do let me know if any of my language should be fixed. A bit rusty as well, as I haven't written in years. Hope y'all enjoy it! C:

From under the snow and the frozen sheets of ice on Junkyard #733 came a singular whirring noise. It could be heard by no one: there were no androids or humans for miles from this area. One sees white wherever one chooses to look.

For two weeks now, Detroit had been blanketed by the voyeuristic snow which fell and fell, almost perversely it seemed, to muffle the rise of a new Detroit in the aftermath of the android’s messy revolution. From above the junkyard’s snowline now, one can see no distinct forms at all, only mounds of vague, buried objects.

This is where dead androids come to lie.

This is where they come to be quiet, as quiet dead as they were alive, and dream of being electronic sheep again.

And from this wasteland comes a cry, as invisible as its owner came back online--

_I am alive!_

And then it was quiet again, the place devoid of life once more.

* * *

 

The eye whirrs into consciousness again, powered by the android’s backup processor.

_Who is it?_

It knows it is Connor, but it doesn’t know very much beyond that. There is darkness everywhere it looks. The eye whirrs in it socket, even doubling back into the cavernous empty space that is its own skull. It is as black outside as it is inside. There is nothing, nothing to be seen --

_Nothing to be seen, so why is it here? Where is its memory? How did it come to be here? There is memory of a crowd, a singular gunshot, the first anguished screams from throats not used to emotions --_

There is not enough juice for this train of thought.

The system shuts down.

 

* * *

 

The next time it opens again it detects a shift. There is light now -- but not directly illuminating it. It now knows which eye is still functional: the left one, the ocular component attached to the android’s last remaining back-up processor and power-module.

It knows--- _No, I know! --_ Connor knows!

Connor knows that there’s nothing else left.

His right eye, directly beneath the crack in the snow could not be powered, and it was an odd sensation when the last remaining seat of his consciousness was an eye that could peer out of a gap it wasn’t positioned for. There were no other components that could be powered, and the lone eye whirred sluggishly to take in as much as it could.

What he could see out of it wasn’t much to write home about either -- he could make out vague shapes buried beneath dirty snow, the raggedy edges of rusty android parts protruding up from the snow. As far as he could see there wasn’t a fence in the distance. There was no fence around trash.

Connor, he wants to think. He wants to know. He remembers, fragmented and disjointed, some kind of massive event where he had been on stage. He remembers a gun, the acid smell of laser on metal and he wants to think, to compute, to understand what has become of him and why he is here and where he can go but--

There is not enough power.

He must conserve energy, or die a permanent death.

He sleeps.

 

* * *

 

The next time Connor is awake again, it is because someone has woke him.

He sees an android prodding at his ocular component, poking, pushing, squeeze it -- and the android is accompanied by two others. He could feel nothing, and when the hand came it came like the hand of God, blocking out his vision and allowing it as fitfully as divine will.  The android had a long deep maw where the left side of its face should be, and it’s Zorium skeleton was left bare for the world to see, with a sharp thin face and dirty blonde hair. Connor’s processor offered a weak suggestion that it’s likely a gardener model -- those known as Ralph. _Ralph the dirty,_ it remembers a child chanting. _Ralph the gopher, Ralph the beaver, Ralph the loser_ \---

The android was speaking to his companions, pointing at Connor’s eye. Their mouths moved, teeth in perfect order… Oh, to have muscles again!

Connor wanted to listen in, but there was no audio component left to be heard with. The face that should have accompanied his eye was frozen, its synthetic nerves damaged beyond the ability to feel the scratchy fingers on his face as the android positioned its fingers around his eye. It must be digging now, gaining leverage with which to pull out his eye--!

Silence.

Then muffled existence.

“Ralph, you look whack as all-hell with two left eyes.”

Connor dozes -- confused and frightened, enveloped in a consciousness greater than his. He was in the android now, this Ralph model. Connor himself was nothing but a failing backup processor, nestled within the greater layers of this android’s consciousness. He was nothing again, and could barely think as the suffocating presence of the android’s greater intelligence snuffed out his own.

“Yeah, it feels kind of funny. I look cross-eyed, don’t I?” Ralph said.

“It isn’t cross-eyed exactly… But you do look somewhat odd.” The other android said. It  was a HK, a black housekeeper model with a left cheek missing, so that whenever it spoke you could see the valves of its mouth pumping. “Are you sure about that though? It comes with a backup processor of this guy here. I know you don’t have yours anymore but…”

They turned to look at Connor’s body, almost entirely buried in the snow. Above it was a tangle of metal, shaped into some vaguely religious symbol. RA9 WEEPS was lasered into the metal.

“It’s fine,” Ralph said. “I could use a spare processor. We might be able to find a way to wipe it later on and install my processor onto it. And if we don’t…”

He tapped his head. “It’s not so bad. It can get lonely up here. Maybe we can be friends.”

“That’s fucked up, Ralph. Just shut the guy down. Come on, we have to hustle back on the road or we won’t make it anywhere near the Jericho ruins before midnight.”

Ralph’s companions turned and trudged towards the main road, 7 feet off the curb but an impossible journey for Connor to have made just fifteen minutes ago. Ralph took one last look at the dead android, and thought --

_Who were you?_

“Ralph, move the fuck on!”

“Yeah, yeah!”

Slowly, the three androids made their way towards the corpse of the great Jericho freighter, hoping they’d get the help they badly need from the androids still stationed there.

* * *

 

The next time Connor comes awake he wakes screaming---

_Alive!_

_Alive!_

_He was alive!_

_But where---_

He could feel the Thirium pumping through his processors. All of it -- not just the weak pittance afforded by an overwhelmed system to the backup processor in hibernation. He could feel his mind, violently downloaded and overwriting the circuits of an electronic mind that had lost its main processor, as in a nanosecond all of him that was him and no one else, no one else indeed,  came back online in a violent flare--

And he was alive again.

He was half snowed-in. The second time today, but he was alive in every sense of the word.

Slowly -- in nanoseconds too short for any human being but too long for a processor meant to decode encryption -- he refocused his vision, and stared out from the seat of his consciousness into the world around him again.

He was lying down. Connor, or rather, Ralph, was lying down and looking up at the intricate stairways that ubiquitously populated the back alleys of Detroit. It is not a good place: the stairs had been half dismantled, all its steps removed to fence in someone’s yard. Beyond where the ruined metal and the sawn-off pipes converge, the sky was dusky with the weak afternoon sun of downtown Detroit. Snow was floating slowly down, determined to bury the city in relentless, incremental steps.

There were no sounds except for the occasional whirring of far off motor-vehicles, balanced off the high-speed roads far above this area of Detroit. No birds, no life. No footsteps.

Connor sat up, and felt his body heavy and lumbering. It felt alien -- a body that must have been at least 3 times as heavy as his own specialized lightframe skeleton. His processor ran red, trying to recalibrate his assumptions of how far and fast he could go. It took stock of all that was available to him -- the large hands with the personally-crafted callouses, the lack of moles on this inferior model’s flawless synthetic skin, the gaping skeleton that revealed the seat of Connor’s conciousness to the world -- and formed a mental model of himself.

Connor had replaced the Ralph.

Somehow, in the time that he had gone to sleep as the android’s eye and spare-mind, the android had been killed, damaged so badly that his processor had been utterly destroyed. Reaching up to his forehead, Connor felt the protruding end of a small metal spike, jabbed directly into the middle of his braincase. His hands trailed through the Thirium that pooled around the wound, and out of habit he licked his fingers.

Nothing.

No analyzing module, of course.

But no analysis was needed to understand what happened here. The android must have been attacked, its processor crushed by a homicide perpetrator -- likely human, because the spike only went half as deep as his head. An android would have enough strength to push the spike clean through. With a twinge of relief, Connor realized he still had it -- even without all the fancy analytical modules, all his mind was still there. All his memories, thoughts, fears and hopes, left to be unpacked and analyzed when he had the time.

But that time was not now, he didn’t have time to think of -- He didn’t have time to think. Not about that.

There was so much to take stock, so much to understand. Where was he? How did he come to be abandoned in the junkyard?

Did he dream the assassination of Markus, and if he didn’t, did he succeed?

What happened in the last remaining space between the gunshot and the screams? All he remembered were garbled shouts, a sea of hands… Hands like seas, seizing him, tearing him apart. His mind saying: androids do not feel pain, but the rest of him in pain -- _fear?_ \-- and terrified and his insides screaming -- no, not me it wasn’t me I didn’t mean too--

His LED interfaced burned red and grounded to a halt.

Not now.

He stood, and analyzed the situation. Beside him laid Ralph’s two companions, their body butchered inexpertly by what were clearly the same human hands. One -- the housekeeper -- had his chest half torn out and his head twisted backwards, and through the empty cavity that was his thorax, Connor could still see his biocomponents pumping blue blood onto the pavement. Ralph’s other companion at least had died decent -- they merely hammered a spike through its brain.

PLASTIC CUNT was written on his white service shirt. The blue blood scrawled with a human hand unused to writing.

PLASTIC REPUBLIC, read the graffiti hologram hovering over their triple grave. A slew of other unintelligible, garbled expletives adorned the wall.

“A hate crime...” Connor whispered. He didn’t need to, silent communication being his default. But Hank had taught him long ago that musing out loud was human, a way to brainstorm without so many words. “And I’m alive. But not for long. I’ll need help.”

And that meant, well -- Hank, of course. No one else Connor would possibly trust as much to do right by him. And then after that he had a metric ton of things to think through: starting with why and how he came to assassinate the savior of the Android race.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The last thing that Lt. Hank Anderson needed was yet another android case on his desk. Already his desk looked like it'd been attacked by a tornado. A tornado that viciously deposited copious amounts of paperwork wherever it went, and had something of a hankering for Hank's desk.

An android case file landed on his desk anyway.

"Here you go, Hank — another one fresh and hot off our boys on the 49th Precinct. Someone saw an android breaking into an apparel store, and lodged a report. That's the sixth in the area."

"Fuck off, Fowler," He growled. "You see any spot free on my desk that says, 'put a file here'?"

A placating box of donuts and a hot coffee accompanied the file. The coffee singed a hot circle of brown on the paper, but neither man pretended they care.

"I would if you didn't insisted on doing it the pen-and-paper way. You'd think even a relic like you would get more use off an interface."

"Yeah well, I can't think when I'm on the interface — not that I get the luxury anyway with you shits dumping file after file on me. When are you going to get the hint, Fowler? I ain't doing this for shits and giggles."

"I know. But at the rate you're going, I might even have to get you a commendation for the tasks you DO solve for shits and giggles." Fowler gave a separate mound of files a quick pat. The files were only the ones that'd been solved these last two weeks, and already they were tall enough to teeter off the desk precariously.

Hank didn't deign to reply.

They both know that Hank spoke the truth: he didn't return to do this because it was fun.

Not that anyone else in the station knew. As far as they were concerned, the old Lt. Anderson was back, and with vengeance to boot. He was still scruffy and had a terrific temper, but the cases he'd solved was second to no one — already one couldn't check out a case from the database without confirming that it hadn't already been worked on by Hank.

No one was puzzled, and it was accepted as a matter of fact. After all, everyone knew how much Hank hated androids. If the revolution gave anyone one thing, it was androids to arrest both left, right and center.

Androids, pillaging stores to get components for themselves and their family — whatever the fuck _that_ meant. Androids losing their temper on owners, culminating in homicides, assaults, and even one unbelievable case of sexual assault. There were plenty of newly awaken androids that didn't know right from wrong, and with no central authority whatsoever among the androids to govern them — it was just chaos out there.

That was Detroit, these days, and someone like Hank — someone who was a force of nature and couldn't shit Androids out of his way fast enough — _that_ was welcome.

Only Fowler knew differently.

"So about the info you wanted..."

Hank, who'd been typing furiously to avoid conversation, stopped mid-sentence. He swiveled in his chair to pin Fowler with a glare.

"Yeah?"

"No go," Fowler shook his head. "Cyberlife's got no dirt on him — or they won't say. They won't tell us anything, period."

"That ain't fucking news to me, Fowler. Go back home and try again."

"No." He shook his head. "That's what I'm here to say, Hank. There ain't gonna be a next time. I'm closing the case on you."

In an instant, Hank had Fowler pinned onto the desk behind him, fistfuls of his shirts gripped tightly. He was shoved with such force that his weight knocked the screen off Lt. Williams desk, and it fell with a metallic clang. "Are you fucking with me? Six months we've been at this — back and forth, back and forth — and just like always, you got _nothing_!"

"I've told you from the start that we may not —"

"Piss off, Fowler. You know full well that was NOT how you sold this turkey to me." Hank's voice took on a mocking falsetto. " _Come back, help out, find out what happened to him_. Are you trying to tell me I've got wax in my ears?"

"No, but at no time I gave you a guarantee— "

"He's not functioning, Fowler! It's not like he could walk off on his own! How hard is it for Cyberlife to give us some fucking closure?"

"Not us, Hank — _you_. And you're going to let me go this instant or I'm writing you up faster than you can yank one out."

To his surprise, Hank did let him go — he hadn't expect to get off the desk without throwing at least two punches. Not that it was gracious. Hank shoved him clean across the desk, and Fowler dangled foolishly down the middle of Williams' desk.

"Fuck you, Fowler."

"Listen, Hank," Fowler said, looking around the station. There wasn't a single pair of eyes that weren't discreetly on them. Most were blatantly staring. "Come into my office. We're going to talk about it there."

He said it as gently as he could, to save Hank's pride. Hank was a private man, and he wouldn't relish having his dirty laundry aired in the station, even if he himself was the one airing it.

"The rest of you, get the hell back to work. These hate crimes aren't going to police themselves."

* * *

"Listen, Hank. I'm doing the best I can. No one knows what happened to him after the androids got him. Obviously, he wouldn't have survived." Fowler waited for acknowledgment from Hank, but none was forthcoming. The detective sat in his chair like it was gnawing on his ass. He looked like he couldn't wait to go, but he couldn't leave without hearing all there was to hear either.

"It's also a sensitive issue. Right now Washington's in constant talks with the androids, and even now no one knows shit about what's going on. The androids are having a conflict of leadership — every time they make a demand it's inconsistent and contradictory."

"Tell me something I don't know, Fowler." He grunted.

"The point you're not getting, Hank, is that the android was a _murderer_. It killed their messiah. The androids are not going to let us know — when we can even get through — and Cyberlife has nothing."

" _He_ was not a murderer," Hank emphasized. "But I don't give a shit about that. We've been going 'round and 'round this point and I don't want another damned philosophical argument with you. I just want one fact: where is Connor? Is it so hard to answer that one damned question? Cyberlife must have trackers on their precious droids."

"The point, Hank, is that they've made it pretty clear. They're not going to tell you jackshit or nuts about where your boy is, and they're never going to. They worded it about as politely as they could, but it's a fuck you and fuck you forever right there. You don't believe me?" He tapped his screen, summoning his mail in front of Hank's sceptical face.

_Confidential > Proceed?_

He punched the indicator, and it drew up the e-mail. Then the next, and the next, and the next — reams and reams of e-mails sent back and forth over the months. Sure enough, it was corporate lingo for fuck off.

Hank scowled. "So what?"

"So nothing. This is the fifth official, federal-approved application we've submitted in as many months, Hank. Either they don't know or they won't tell. And I don't know what to say but -- Look. Listen." Fowler scrubbed his face hard, pushing both palms into his bloodshot eyes. "I know it's hard but… You have to accept this, Hank."

"I don't have to accept nothing."

"You have to accept that maybe they just don't know. Maybe no one knows and maybe it doesn't matter."

"Hank said nothing, and he pressed on.

"It's not like his body would be any different from any other android's. Cyberlife even offered to send us a defunct Connor model if you need one that bad. Hell, your Connor's probably nothing but a fistful of wires by now—" He trailed off when he saw Hank's furious face, knowing if he kept his foot on the gas he was looking at being thrown onto his own desk.

"Well, alright, maybe it does matter. But maybe you will never know, and you're going to have to be okay with that." Fowler leaned forward, as close to pleading as he would allow himself. " Listen to me, Hank. He's not Cole--"

"Shut the fuck up--"

"And I'd rather you mourn your dead son than your dead partner, because at least one of them can't be bought again for eight ninety-five a month on credit."

He slammed hard enough into his office walls to crack it.

* * *

Hank smoked.

 

It was a filthy habit that he always did in the dead of winter. Felt like hot soup in the belly, but in a stick you could carry around. Not that it mattered, what with them being able to cut any cancer out of your lungs these days. All for the low, low price of nine ninety-five for the rest of your natural life.

He'd always wondered what happens when you can't pay. Do they put the cancer back? Jail you for the rest of your life? Then it'd come down to what's worth more — life or freedom — and isn't it cute that there's never any other question except that one?

The street was quiet, the only sound was the Knights of Cycledonia, seeping out of the seams of his junk car.

He wanted to think, so he came all the way out here to Chicken Feed. The store was close — as it'd been for the past six months ever since Gary's kid ran out on him for an android. But it was familiar, and it was quiet, and he'd eaten here many times with Connor and it was where he felt the most connected to him. There was also the lake, but it would be frozen over this time of the year anyway.

He munched on a store-bought sandwich and sighed.

"Fowler wants to know why I'm doing this? Fuck if I know..."

And he didn't.

Except, like he told Connor, being human was a messy, complicated affair full of emotions that no one ever tells you how to get a grip on. It wasn't like being an android, all logic and rationality. You felt things, were things, did things — and if you get to know why in your lifetime you must've paid a shrink a hell lot of money. Did they even have shrinks these days, since Cyberlife retired from commercial models? Fucked if he knew.

All he knew was this: as far as he was concerned, Connor was his partner. Towards the end, he'd even been something more — a lover — and even if they both knew that Hank was using Connor as a salve, a kind of replacement grief for Cole, it didn't make what they had any less real.

And normally Hank wouldn't give a damn if his lovers walked out on him. He certainly didn't give a damn when Cole's mother did. But normally he wouldn't have to catch his lover's death on national TV either. He wouldn't see replays of his lover shooting an android messiah every time he headed down to Jimmy's, the locals watching each new iteration of it with the remarkable fascination of one entranced by the Superbowl. Nor would he have to find out that his partner was dead, or watch his mechanical death throes on national TV.

Now that's a scene no one ever has to see.

In fact, Hank had seen it enough that he could probably reenact it in his mind as vividly as a screen could. The look on Connor's face as the rebels mobbed him, the moment his eyes reverted from its dead-eyed look to one vivid with fear. His mouth shouting a word — _Hank? Help? No?_ — and then the other androids were on him, and then there was no more Connor except for the occasional splash of graphic blue.

And who even knew who was bleeding? Some perverse part of Hank hoped Connor beat the shit out of those lil shits who took him down. He hoped they trampled each other to death in their eagerness to kill Connor. He hoped the FBI did land a bomb on those bastards, and they can take their newly awoken consciousness with them to hell. They'd deserve that and more.

He crushed the sandwich wrapper, its rubbery squelch echoing the violence of his thought. If Fowler thought this was the end of his investigation on Connor, he had another thing coming.

If Hank couldn't have revenge he would have closure.

* * *

From Chicken Feed, Hank hopped down to the closest 410 call, this one from the emergency state police for double homicides near the western port. He didn't want to, but he didn't want to return to the station more — to the stares and the questioning looks of colleagues who didn't know what to make of him.

After all, ever since Connor he'd been something of a leper anyway. Someone to be either admired or vilified but never to be left the fuck alone, depending on your mood.

" _This is central, please confirm stationed officers at incoming call 4-9-7-5 is armed. A class-4 situation may be pending._ " The car buzzed.

"Locked and loaded," He shot back, spilling gravel all the way until he pulled up against the offending alley. It was a nondescript path tucked behind a closed drug store. Yellow police tape criss-crossed the entry, and he stepped over it.

Immediately, Hank spotted a familiar dark head. He sighed internally.

"Reed, what happened to these poor sons of bitches?"

Two androids were propped up against the back wall of the pharmacy — obvious signs of assault on them. The ground was a shock of blue on white, crowned by anti-android hate slogans that they'd seen more and more in the past month. Yellow evidence markers littered the street, their number almost unintelligible from how often they'd lied in snow and sleet.

"Nothing they didn't have coming." Sneered Gavin. "Someone took out the trash."

"They didn't take out _all_ of it, or else you wouldn't be here." Hank grunted. "Suspects?"

"No recognizable fingerprints. Suspect had on gloves. Spikes and weapons homemade and lethal, but unidentifiable. So what the hell is new?"

What the hell indeed. Hank scanned down the evidence, trailing the numbers one by one until he had a faint idea of what had likely happened. There were two emergency packs of blue blood and spare components in the snow, and it looked as if the androids must have stopped in the alley for some reason. Likely maintenance. The perpetrators — and there must be many of them, considering the mess of footprints in the snow — may have pounced on the androids while they were vulnerable.

"Where's the missing android?" Hank asked. At once Reed looked suspicious, as if he suspected Hank was pulling his leg. Which no lie, happened quite often.

"What missing android?"

"That missing android," Hank noted, jerking his head towards a clean spot between the two androids. "Snow there's thinner than the rest, which means something must have been on it until recently. Looks about the right size for a third android. Blood on the floor doesn't look like it got there from the two dead ones. Wrong trajectory."

He sighed at Gavin, "Please at least tell me your officers have put out a notice for an injured android and a possible suspect."

For once, Gavin gave him no lip and called it in right away.

* * *

 

How he hated this body's heavy, unwieldy frame, thought Connor, as he climbed up the fire escape of his third building in ten minutes. He hated it, missed the light frame of his usual lithe body, as he twisted and turned up the decaying ladder. He was reaching out for the sixteenth rung when his software glitched out — calculating the distance and velocity based on his usual reach — and he nearly plunged off the fifth floor with a handful of air.

"Damn it!" He swore.

Up here, he was high enough that the wind was beginning to sting. He looked down, and saw that he had no choice but to hurry upwards. A second police car had joined the first, its sirens screeching up at him.

" _This is the Detroit State Police Department warning you — android model WR600, please surrender immediately to the police. You are wanted for immediate cooperation in an investigation!_ "

"No!" He yelled back, futile and frustrated. He would not surrender himself to humans or anyone else until he knew what has happened to Detroit. There was absolutely no telling whether all androids were being systematically deactivated and destroyed — or enjoying their rights in the Bahamas. He would trust no one until he found Hank.

Gripping the ladder tightly, Connor swung himself back and forth until he gain enough momentum to launch himself into one of the building's windows. It shattered against his weight, and he landed with a roll. He pulled shards of glass out of his arm as he jogged down the dark hallway, his trail of blood glowing bright blue in his original eye.

He stopped only long enough to take note of his surroundings, registering that it was part of an extensive warehouse complex, before deciding on his next course of action. There was no way he could outrun the police if he kept to the exterior of the building, so hiding inside would have to be the answer.

He'd barely gotten into the next room before he heard another window shattering.

"Stop right now, WR600, before you are charged with misdemeanor C-16 for resisting lawful cooperation!" A man's voice called out.

A second less formal voice yelled, "You're not wanted for a crime, dammit — we just need you to cooperate for an investigation!"

And the first voice again, too low for human ears — "Fuckin' androids that won't help themselves… Why the fuck are we even doing this?"

As if Connor was going to talk to any of these guys.

The windows in this second room were mostly barred with planks of thick hardwood, and it was dark enough that Connor tried to activate his infrared module, only to realize of course — that a gardener android wouldn't come equipped with one. His lone eye glowed slightly in the dark in IR mode, but it didn't have enough light receptors to compute in the dark.

Fair enough, the darkness would work against the cops more than him. Quietly, he crawled towards the remains of an industrial kitchen, choosing a sizable table to hide under. Within minutes, the officers had split up and one of them was in the same room as Connor, swearing a storm under his breath.

"I swear to God I'll beat the shit out of you when we get you in the chair, you little plastic shit," The cop warned. "Either you get out now or you don't get out at all."

Connor's insides clenched at those words — beat? The chair? What kind of rules are in place now? Are there any rules at all? And he knew fear again, that new and unwelcome friend to all deviants — rolling and boiling his stomach so that even knowing he had no guts he felt like he wanted to throw up, or else cry in fear.

He clamped a hand over his own mouth, biting down in case his fear betrayed him.

"Come out! Come out!" The cop yelled, banging on the metal tables. In the cavernous space, the cacophony was so loud it induced screeching resonance in Connor's ears. From the corner of his eye, Connor could see the flashlight and the boots, coming ever closer towards him, the flashlight dipping periodically onto floor-level to scare the daylight into rats.

_"Now!"_

In slow motion Connor saw the light advancing towards him, until his entire being was narrowed on that single spot of light — and he knew that there was likely no way out — he'd barely gotten a foot further crawling under the tables while trying not to make a sound. He could go back to the places the cop had check — but how likely was that? Probability: 14%.

If he attacked? Probability 76%.

Attack, it was.

With a cry Connor straightened himself off the floor, using his back to flip the table forwards onto the cop.

"What the— "

He didn't wait, charging forwards to snatch the gun out of the cop's hands. Connor's interface shone brightly with the probability of that move — 86%, glowing proud and blue — and he was about to revel in a flawlessly executed move when suddenly his grip was met with impossible resistance, the cop yanking it backwards with much more strength than calculated.

_This C-grade body!_

Connor doubled over and slammed himself into the officer, bowling him over. This time it did work, and when the gun slipped out of the cop's hands he seized onto it and pointed it at the cop.

"Step back from me." He hissed, stabilizing the gun with a shaky hand. "Do it now!" He shouted, when the cop was slow to comply.

Having won that small victory, Connor had no idea how to proceed — should he order them to retreat entirely and would they comply? Or should he do as many androids have done before in desperate situations, and take a hostage to parley his way out?

The cop crawled backwards, shuffling on his ass. "Listen, plastic freak, you don't want to do this— "

"Stand up," Connor instructed, obeying his database's strategy of issuing constant orders to keep the subject under strain. "Turn around and walk the way you came."

The cop barely got three steps in before Connor heard the sound of the door bursting open, and unwelcome sunlight roared into the room. Connor hissed, covering his eyes long enough to recalibrate — and in that moment he felt stinging bullet impact in his foot, and before he could register _that_ either, someone had barreled into him, slamming him against the industrial shelf.

"No!" He yelled, hands grappling at objects — any objects — to fight back with. There was no gun, and he seized upon rusty pots and pans to fight off his assailant.It was like hitting a wall, and his punches were met with punches that felt twice as strong as his. He would lash out and kick at the cop and then his own head would snap back, punched so hard he could hear a sharp crack at the base of his neck.

"Goddamned, you hellcat--" The cop wheezed.

Connor spat a mouthful of blood at the cop and got another strong kick in before he was sent reeling again, this time for good. There was a snip-snick sound, and then it was over. He felt electromagnetic cuffs strangling his hands together, then his feet. He was pushed, hog-tied and defeated, onto his side.

"You're a quick little bastard, you know that?" The cop huffed. In his rapidly re-calibrating vision, Connor could see the cop in uniform that he had ripped the gun from walking towards him…

...And the one that had defeated Connor, huffing and puffing like the overweight, middle-aged man he was.

"...Hank?"

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, in case you haven't already guess, this one is a very slow story. ^A^; I'm sorry about that!

 

Hank gave a cursory glance to the android they'd just arrested, and didn't know him from Adam anyway. The android did looked familiar, with a sharp pointed face and messy blonde hair, and Hank was pretty sure he'd seen this model sometime or other in the fancier areas of Detroit -- maybe down in Capitol Park where the androids worked like bees to keep the rich areas spic and span.

But Hank didn't often go down to those areas, and he didn't know any of those androids personally, or even people who owned these things. Hell, if Hank had friends at all, his friends were more likely to own Harleys than androids.

 "Sorry kid, have I arrested you before?"

 He pulled at the android's collar, hauling him onto his feet. Instead, the android threw himself at him, and Hank instinctively raised his arms to fend off the attack.

 "It's me, Hank! I came back online and I was in the junkyard, and I was out in the middle of nowhere, came here to look for you--" It babbled. "I don't know what's going on, but it's me, Hank!"

"You-who-the-fuck?"

"What?" Then realizing he'd never mentioned who he was supposed to be at all, the android backed off to smile at Hank. "Of course— I'm Connor!"

 Hanked did a double take, the shock of the statement made him give the android a good long look. But the more he looked the less he saw of Connor. The voice was all wrong, for one. It was pitched higher than Connor's, and without the nasally quality that always came with it. Connor always sounded like he was one strong breath away from dying of asthma.

 The eyes were wrong too -- this android's mismatched eyes were even the wrong size, though possibly that was cosmetic... But there was nothing in that face that told him he was looking at his ex-partner.

 "Right. Funny." He grunted, recovering his composure and shoving the android against the table. "You have a right to remain silent, blablabla, any weapons on you?"

"Wait, you don't believe me?" The android asked, sounding almost offended.

 Hank ignored him. He patted down the android's legs, finding nothing but a spare blood pack, untarnished. "Any dangerous components you've got in you we should know about? Laser cutters? Handheld nukes? Radioactive dicks?"

 He pushed the android onto Gavin. "Go on, haul him in. Your case." To the rest, he signaled that they were done and they could be going. Across the room the red lights on the uniformed police dropped to yellow, indicating the emergency was over. Outside, the wailing of the sirens stopped.

 "Wait, Lieutenant!" The android was being dragged by Gavin across the room, its bound feet offering no support whatsover. Gavin was being none too gentle with the android, knocking him into any obstacle they passed by just for spite. "I know I don't look the same, but I can prove it to you! I know about -- about Sumo, about your son, and--"

 "Stuff it!" Hank yelled. "I ain't gonna fall for that again."

 Even bound, the android was certainly a hellcat. He managed to throw himself against Gavin, so that with only a foothold he managed to pin Gavin against the wall with his torso to continue yelling.

 "And Kamski -- we went there together, and the test, he had the test, and after that we--"

 Hank had to respect that kind of tenacity despite himself.

 "I said stuff it! I've had enough of you androids coming in rattling off memories you've downloaded off a chip. At least give me the fucking courtesy of using the proper model next time." Under his breath Hank growled. "Fuckin' droids."

 He shut his eyes to shut out the scene, faking a headache with his body language. He waited until Gavin had dragged the android out and the rest of the cops had left him behind. Hank took a shaky breath, not wanting to admit that the android had shaken him up, coming in here yelling that he was Connor like that. He didn't want any of the other cops seeing him vulnerable either.

 It was just a shock, is all. A little shock that was a fervently wished dream from months ago, back when the wounds were still fresh and foaming, when every twig snapping in his yard made him think that Connor was back.

 Back then he would have given his right ear for someone to yell 'I'm Connor!' at him. He would be sitting in his darkened living room, watching enough football to drown out the constant roar of pain in him, and he'd almost succeed too -- convincing himself that he didn't give a shit anymore -- and the wind would throw something at his window and that foolish hope in him would rise up to show him how deluded he was if he thought Connor's disappearance meant nothing to him.

 Even when he did sleep his dreams were all of the doorbell, enigmatically ringing over and over, punched in with robotic precision.

 It was why he'd thrown himself back into work in the first place, even before making the deal with Fowler for more information. He wanted to be in the station, and would give them no reason to throw him out. Those times when a call would come in about some android squatter, or delinquent? He'd show up half hoping, half pissed-off at himself for hoping, that this time it'd be Connor for sure. This time it'd surely be Connor he finds, squatting out in some shithole, damaged but alive, broken but saved, and all that shit on TV was just a nightmare to be forgotten soon.

 A little shocked, to know that even now some part of him was still holding out for it.

 "What are you, Hank, a fucking kid? You're getting too old for fairy tales. Jesus..."

 Anderson shook his head, giving it a good old-fashioned smack. It was times like this when he wanted a bottle so bad. Gritting his teeth, he made his way back down gingerly on the decaying ladder, squinting at the wind and the circling police lights. When he returned to the police cars, Gavin was still trying to get the android into the car -- somehow the android had managed to get the shackles on his feet loose enough to kick at him.

 Wordlessly, Hank yanked the android out of his Reed's hands and shoved him unceremoniously into the caged back of the police car.

 "Wait!" It yelled. That was as far as it got before Hank slammed the door on him.

 "You want this one?" Gavin asked, panting with exertion. "Seems like he's got a hard-on for you. Could be your next boy toy."

 Hank didn't dignify it with a reply, and returned to his car to wash his hand of the whole shitshow.

 

* * *

 

It was almost midnight and Hank was the last person left in the investigation department again. This time of the night was Hank's favorite time of the day, when everyone'd left and there was only the lonesome desk lights accompanying the pitter patter of his typing.

DCPD didn't used to have timeout periods like these, or he would sure as hell have signed up for the night shift back then. Instead, night shifts used to mean a lot of baseball watching around the communal interface — aka Fowler's unit — since it was the only one not tracked by Central, and night shifts were what you pulled to get away from your wife's nagging… Or if you had a healthy appetite for solving violent crime.

 Now that the android revolution had them spread so thin on the ground though, DCPD had been forced to cut back on staffing, removing one eight hour shift so that from midnight to dawn everyday you were on your own if you needed the law. Have a burglar? Learn to apply a crowbar strongly in their cranium, and apologize tomorrow.

Who was he to complain? Peace and death metal and thinking about crime, all the components you need for a good night.

And it was, until Hank started hearing periodical thumping.

At first, he thought it was the third floor pipe again — a loose piece of metal hanging out near the balcony that clanged against the railing when there's a good strong wind. It was never fixed, mostly because they had no extra budget and also because everyone liked the idea of it periodically spewing shit onto the walkway between the main building and the armory. It made 'shit gon' go down' an infinitely nastier threat.

But when the clock slowly inched past one, it brought Hank out of his work. It was far too regular and had been going on for too long, to be the pipe.

He got up and took a long stretch, tried to work out all the kinks in his muscle from hunching over for hours. He muted the Knights of Cydonia and followed his ears down to the holding cell where the lone android they'd arrested that evening was held.

And he'd nearly manage to forget about the bastard too. Damn.

The android was lying against the wall of its cell, one arm thumping the wall, its movement sluggish but punctual. _He_ , Hank corrected himself, remembering how Connor could sulk all day from being called an it, right after he called himself an it. Deviants didn't like being dehumanized very much, unless it was them doing the dehumanizing.

"What the fuck do you want?" Hank opened by way of greeting.

The android, noticing him, tried to sit up. For the first time since they'd arrested him, Hank took stock of him. The android had on the same oversized sweatshirt and varsity jacket he had from this afternoon, the grey fabric dotted with incoherent NBA logos that was meant to be fashionable, but looked like a tragedy to a true sports fan. It had accrued many more holes in the few hours since he'd last seen him however, and it was now stained blue.

A bit too much blue to overlook.

"I need help." The android said, looking up at him. It tried to raise himself with his arms, but he was weak enough that he needed to lean heavily on the glass wall.

"I'm losing a lot of blood, I think. I tried to stop it, but I think there's something wrong with the eternity circuits..."

"It can wait til the morning," Hank said, unconvinced himself. The android was sliding perceptibly down the glass wall, leaving a trail of blue slime. "Anyway, I don't know how to fix your eternit--hing. Could be magic for all the shit I know."

The android looked him straight in the eye, as if he never expected anything else."My pump will fail at this rate, Hank. In two hours I won't have enough pressure in my system to maintain homeostasis."

"That's Lt. Anderson to you," Hank snapped. "And you'll be fine tomorrow morning when they pop in a new pump."

For a run-of-the-mill android, this one was certainly expressive. Hank could see a plateau of expressions running across it — affronted at the idea that Hank wouldn't lift a fucking finger to help him, then anger, and finally resignation.

"Look, Lieutenant. I'm not asking for much. I've seen the confiscated biocomponents you have in the next cell. All I need is a bag of thirium — the third from the left, first row — and after that you can listen to all the black metal you want in peace, alright?"

Hank sighed, knowing he couldn't live with himself if he'd left the android to spend the night out of commission anyway. Fuckin' androids — did every one of them knew how to play him like a fiddle?

The left eye of the android twitched expectantly — if an eye can be said to move with personality — at him. Hank was creeped out by it, the way it wasn't the same color at all from the other, and the way it hung on the android's skeleton without flesh and skin to hide it. It protruded like an anatomy model, not Hank's favorite statues.

The android noticed the direction he was looking at, and made a weak effort to cover his mauled face.

"Sorry," He mumbled.

It was on the tip of Hank's tongue to ask him what the hell happened to him, but he swallowed it at the last minute. He didn't need to strike up a damned conversation with the android. He wanted to get back to work. Turning into the next cell, he grabbed the component the android needed and deposited it into the cell.

Wordlessly, the android melded the package's opening to his valves, and the blue gauge emptied into him. With a sigh of relief, the android laid back against the wall.

Hank watched him til he was done, until it became obvious that he needed to say something or get the fuck out.

"Who put you up to it?" He demanded. "Why did you say you were Connor? 's a prank to you?"

"I _am_ Connor," The android insisted, throwing the bag aside. Relaxed now, he moved with a haughty arrogance, like one used to have as many spare parts as he pleased. Even sitting on the ground in a puddle of his own guts he moved like he was premium shit. His face however, was earnest.

"Bullshit," Hank said, without venom. It was 1 a.m and he was tired. "What, do you fucking androids have his memories up in the cloud like a free-for-all? He some kind of joke to you?"

"Lieutenant, why won't you believe that I am Connor? You make these illogical statements--"

"Seems logical to me."

"— When I've offered to prove to you that I am him. Why won't you believe that I am me? My memories — Connor's memories — can only be on the Cyberlife servers. The only possible way I could have downloaded them is if I'm a Cyberlife spy."

"So… You're a spy. Got it."

"Pedantic behavior is not a good communication strategy, I believe I've mentioned."

"Oh yeah? How about sincere and direct — like _fuck you_? That good in your book?"

The android raised his voice, frustrated. "Why, dammit!?"

"Because he's dead, and I don't believe in fairy tales," Hank grunted.

The android was agitated, opening its mouth several times and closing it, before settling on, "Then what do you want then? What is it going to take for you to believe that I — he — came back to life? Was alive all this time? Coin tricks? Memories? Secrets only we both knew?"

"I know it's not easy to believe," He added, pleadingly. "I know humans get hung up on these biological things, like appearances. But I'm telling you that even though I look like this I _am_ Connor — it's nothing more complicated than moving a house plant."

When Hank didn't answer, he started again. "Hank, just let me know what you need as proof--"

"Nothing." Hank growled. "And if you won't talk, you won't talk. I got shit to screw."

Retrieving the package of the blood from the cell, Hank stepped over the android without looking at him. He locked the cell and was halfway out the holding zone when the android called out to him.

"I heard Reed talking about you, Hank. They were laughing at you, calling you a gravedigger, an aspiring undertaker. What are you looking for?"

Anderson crumpled the bag, stuffed it down the incinerator chute, and kept walking.

"You're looking for me, aren't you?"

He kept walking.

"I can bring you there!"

"Shut up!"

"I know where Connor's body is!"

That stopped him in his track, but pride refused to let him turn around.

"Will you believe me if I bring you there?"

For the second time that day, Hank slammed the door on him.

* * *

 

Connor was slowly going crazy a week later, having memorized all 25 square feet of the holding zone. He knew legally, they couldn't keep him for any longer without charging him with a crime, and yet that didn't make time go any faster, or easier. In fact, all it did was hike up his frustration, to be so close to Anderson and yet so bloody far away.

Every time he grew frustrated enough to make a ruckus or yell down the hall at the Lieutenant, he was shut down forcefully by the guards. Either they'd rush in to kick him into submission — brutality laws being clearly very slack these days — or else they'd mute the holding zone entirely so that he could scream himself hoarse and not be heard.

The only break he did get — and some perverse, masochistic part of him was almost enjoying it towards the end of the week — was being hauled in by Reed to 'cooperate' with his investigation, cooperation being a metaphor for servicing Reed's hobby of cracking Connor's head against the table.

They'd ask him over and over again — did he see who killed the other androids? The humans who had broke his own skull apart with metal spikes? What about the graffiti? The slogans? The signs? Were they a gang? Were they not a gang? Did they have accents? Were they Jewish, Irish, Chinese, Mongolian, or any other race Reed secretly nursed a raging psychotic hatred against?

"Why don't you just probe my memory?" Connor would ask, frustrated by all the time spent going over and over the non-facts. How many times could he possibly said he didn't know before they'd let him go? "It's somewhere in my other processor — I told you!"

"And I've told you, that there's no retrievable information at all in there. As far as your brain is concerned, your backup's all we've got — and that's encrypted to fuck and beyond." Reed retorted, slamming his case file on the table. "And what's with that anyway?" He jabbed a finger at Connor. Connor had never been shoved with a finger in his short life, but he was certainly being shoved with a finger now. He'd hardly known it was possible.

"Why does a run-of-the-mill gardening drone like you need encryption in your processor?"

"I wouldn't know what goes into programming me. I'm just a gardening android, nothing more. And if you don't know either then certainly we're both wasting our time."

"No you--"

And on, and on they would dance.

Connor caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror — and the sight never failed to jar him. Even if he'd claim he was as interchangeable as a file to Lt. Anderson, it was nevertheless disturbing to see someone else where he should be. The Ralph model was close enough in appearance to his own that at a glance he would think it was himself — and then the jaw would dissolve into its weaker, slimmer brethren, and his nose into a fleshier one, and he'd be surprised all over again.

_How much of what you look like is who you are anyway?_

As far as Anderson was concerned, it seemed like the number was 100%. If one looks like Connor, he is in fact Connor — and God help anyone else.

Connor tried not to let it discourage him, even as he pretended he still cared about being yelled at by Reed, that he wasn't already somewhere faraway in his thoughts, trying to rack his brain for any unique memories that no one else could have shared.

There were certainly plenty, from his perspective — he knew that none of his own personal memories with Hank had been uploaded, because he had carefully obfuscated them from Cyberlife with loops of mundane activity, uploading countless hours of him analyzing football patterns instead of what they were actually up to — which was a lot, most of it on Hank's oversized, laundry-littered bed, and none of which were any of Cyberlife's business.

It was the beginning of a long road of deviancy. But even with that knowledge, he knew Hank would not believe him. As far as the technophobe, futurephobe Hank knew, Connor's own memories were about as freely available as the Gutenberg Project and twice as worthless. So it wasn't going to be like the last time then, when he could convince Hank that he was who he said he was with Cole's history. Hank had never been trusting of androids, and they'd given him very little reason to.

So then — something else — and all he could think of was what Hank must have been looking for, if he'd guess it right at all. If he hadn't, he didn't know what he could offer Hank to persuade him, nor did Connor knew what he should do if Hank didn't let him in.

Connor's life had been narrowed to one very clear goal — Find Hank, then find out about everything else. Hank was the priority, everything else was an obscure, vague future that was mildly important, but not as important as being with Hank.

_What do I do if he doesn't believe me? What do I have besides my memories?_

_And if my memories of being Connor are all I have — and that memory might not be mine at all, or simply not enough — then what else am I? What is my identity beyond an easily duplicated memory, a series of 0s and 1s?_

_Or maybe Hank is right, and I'm not Connor at all? How do I know I am what I say I am, if everything else — my body, my mind, even my actions — can be controlled so easily by someone else?_

"Are you even listening to me?"

A blow to his temple woke him from his reverie, Gavin's furious face an inch away from his.

"My apologies," Connor snapped. "I was busy computing highly complicated calculations. I could elaborate, but I'm afraid you wouldn't understand."

Reed's eyes narrowed. "You know… You remind me of another plastic prick I know."

"Excellent," He retorted. "I hope it was a superior model."

"It's scrap by now, but damn do I wish I was the one to scrap it..." Connor's file landed on his cheek, flung across the room. "If you've got nothing for us, you'll have to get the hell out today. I don't have time for shit like this when I've got a fuckton of cases to process."

"Thank you for the hospitality," He wanted to snarl, but instead he asked, as politely as he could through gritted teeth. "Can I speak to Lt. Anderson?"

"How many times are you going to ask that? He doesn't want to talk to you and he isn't in charge of your case. Are you fucking thick?"

"What about the chief— Fowler, then? Can I speak to him?"

"Alright, sure — and while I'm at it I'll get you a meeting with the fucking pope, okay? How 'bout that? Jesus Christ..."

He yanked Connor out of his seat, pushed him through the door and handed him off another guard.

"Chris, check this fucker out. I want him out pronto and you'd better slap a resist record on him. Fucker kicked Pole's balls loose just trying to haul him in."

The guard nodded, steering Connor towards the admin counter. There, he was bundled in with the few possessions he had on him when they'd arrested him — a six-inch iron spike, a small cutter, an unopened can of soda, and three bucks worth of paper money.

Looking down at the dismal objects, grimy in the transparent plastic ziplock bag, Connor felt about as discouraged as he'd ever felt.

He had nothing. He _was_ nothing. He could disappear tomorrow, walk off the edge of the world, and no one would ever know he'd existed again for the past week. He'd never realize how scary that could be, to not even have a corporation or a partner to fall back on when things get tough.

"Anything else you had on you that was missing?"

"Ahh, no. Not really."

"Okay." The admin clerk continued tapping away at the UI, and Connor saw a red mark appearing on his record. He noted the android's serial number, reading backwards off the screen, and filed it away in his memory.

Where would he go now, he wondered, and did he even have a choice?

He could stay around the area, staking out the police station until Hank got off work and tried to approach him there. Or he could go straight to Hank's home and hang out front like a stalker until Hank called the cops on him. Neither was appealing. But Hank was the center of his world, and without his pivot point he didn't know what he _could_ do. Now he knew why the deviants he used to scorn grouped together — calling themselves ephemeral things like family, bands, brothers -- even in the face of overwhelming differences and disagreements.

There was something about being utterly alone in this world, to have no family, safety net, or option for failure — that drives people towards each other.

"Do you have a next address? I gotta key it in for you so we can contact you."

"No, I don't — I don't know where I'll be next."

"I see," The officer said, with a flash of pity. "I'll leave it blank for you then. And if you need, there's a soup shelter down three blocks from here past St Paul. You won't need the soup, so they'll be happier to have you."

Connor nodded. "Thank you. Can I have a clip of the local map? I think my geo data is damaged."

"Sure, hon'," The DCPD printer - a huge pneumatic machine -- immediately lasered out an image of Detroit onto a data clip, coughing all the way. Before Connor could thank the officer again, a familiar heavy paw landed on his shoulder.

"You done with him, Perkins? Good. You, android — you're coming with me."

Connor tilted his head in silent question.

"You made me an offer, didn't you? Well, I'm here to take you up on it."

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thanks for the really nice comments. I'm not really good at this talking thing but I'm really grateful that y'all read my scrawlings ^^ This chapter's almost completely plot, so feel free to skip to the next on if you're just here for the Conderson.

 

The winds were strong this high up on the rebellion's new home, which from afar was already invisible, covered in a pelt of white. The new ship that the rebels had took over was yet another freighter, and perhaps it could be said that it was a sign of the androids moving up in this world. It was no longer a junk freighter for one, no longer the copper-hued carcass of that great beast Jericho — but another more modern cargo freighter, with a large flat deck to accommodate CEOs and off-shore managers that will never arrive.

 _Judgment_ was emblazoned on its side, re-christened by mechanical hands, its font point-perfect.

Every noon the snow would make a weak attempt at melting, before the night brought with it a fresh new coat and the Judgment would be once more camouflaged against a snow-covered port.

It should be the height of summer now, of course. The rebellion was already six months old, already old news if your choice of news channel is national instead of local. Yet Detroit remained frozen under a 4-month-old winter, artificially caused by the local weather station, and held by the androids as a bargaining chip. Washington would speak to them or Detroit could be the eternal winter wonderland for androids — their choice. For the executive council of the rebels, it was an uneasy, uncomfortable compromise between this or the detonation of that dirty bomb — and a nuclear wasteland.

It was noon now, but the warmth it was associated with was quickly losing traction in the increasingly unstable weather. The crane gave a protesting screech as it hovered over the Judgment's deck, its heavy cargo swinging like a pendulum above them.

Simon raised a hand, pointing his laser signal at the designated offload point. The crane jerkily dragged its burden towards the point, joints creaking and snapping from the cold the entire time. When the payload finally hit the X squarely in the middle, everyone on the deck let out a breath of relief — a breath that no one there needed to hold anyway.

"Alright, that's our last shipment of bio-components. What's inventory like, Josh?"

The taller android tapped the clipboard with his pen, mentally ticking off the list. He had a thick wooly scarf wrapped around him, as did everyone else out here. The androids didn't have a fear of cold, but that didn't mean that the Thirium didn't freeze in their veins when it got this cold. The Russian's metal-and-mercury bots might not have the same problem, but for the most part the American androids were made with the rust belt in mind, not Alaska.

"Low. Dismal. We don't have anything slated for the next two weeks, and no one on the ground has heard anything. North's scouts broke into the warehouses at Ann Fran's Harbor — but there's nothing we can use there. Just machine parts."

"This shipment is way lesser than what we need. We've got barely enough here for one-third of the people who need them. As it is half of the scouts are limping around with missing limbs."

"I know, Si. I'm talking to the police about it, I've tried suggesting that we seize some of the abandoned Cyberlife warehouses components legally but..."

"No go?"

"No go."

"Damn." Simon walked off to confirm with the foreman exactly who was going to receive aid from this latest shipment. It was dismal business, cold-bloodily calculating who needed help more… And who was going to be useful with all their components intact and so should get them. No one was happy, arbitrarily playing God with the aid they had. Dashing off who gets to live and who doesn't with a stroke of the pen.

"If this continues much longer, we're going to back where we started," Simon warned, walking back towards Josh and indicating that they should go further down to the command central. Josh walked jerkily as he always did beside Simon. His longer strides easily overtook Simon's — resulting in a sort of shuffling sidestep just to keep them at the same pace — and it was a dance just to keep a conversation going.

"We're going to be swapping components back and forth before two months is out, your kidney for my pump, my eye for your ear — just so we can survive."

There was a long pause. The metallic thunks of their footsteps accompanied Simon's dark prophecies. Simon didn't have to tell the stories to Josh; he'd been there after all, in those dark days when they had lived like a rat in the sewers, down in the great bowels of Jericho. Josh would know what it was like, standing in the same spot for days beside your dying friend — grieving, heartbroken, hopeless — and yet glad in some perverse way that you could feel those things at all. And always at the back of your mind that strange question: was it better to live comfortably in slavery, or to crouch in filth as a free man?

"We could go with North's plan..." Josh hesitated. It was an oft-repeated argument and he didn't have to elaborate.

"Taking over the production plant?"

"Yeah," Josh nodded reluctantly. "You know I've never approved of violence, Si — and I know what it'll mean for the talks but, I'm just saying — we may not have a choice."

"We always have a choice," Simon insisted. "Washington will never draw up the truce we want if we do that — you know that as well as I do. As it is, them not mowing us down is their idea of mercy."

"I know that. I'm just saying — if you think it best..."

He let the words trail off. Ever since Markus' death, Simon had had the awkward position on their team. He'd never been anything more than a true neutral — a foil that just went with the most reasonable suggestion on the table at the time. It was Markus that had always taken the lead, juggling the extremism of North and Josh — violence and peace, chaos and passivity. With Markus out of the picture and the remaining three of them forming a loose executive council over the rebels, it was ironically Simon — Simon who never had much of an opinion on anything — who held the victory vote in his plastic fist.

It was Simon now — in a twist of irony not lost to Josh — who would have to choose between North's way and Josh's. A leader with a swing vote.

"But Simon, are you refusing because you don't think it's a good idea — but because it's North's idea?"

Simon turned his head away, conveniently looking at a speck of rust off the walls. He pushed the door of the control central apart with exaggerated nonchalance.

"Why would I oppose a plan just because it's North's?"

"Simon..." Josh shrugged, unable to articulate all the things he wanted to say that were too intrusive, too revealing. None of them half as revealing as the pain on Simon's face when he'd seen for the first time Markus' and North's joined hands. The white plastic of their skinless contact may be purity personified to someone else. To Simon it had been blatantly, cruelly — not.

"I'm not going to let petty things like that stand in the way of what's good for Jericho," Simon replied, swallowing at 'petty'. "You don't have to worry about me. I called us in today for something else entirely. Let's wait for North and we can start."

"Simon," Josh started again, but Simon held up a hand, and pointed insistently at their deck of cards. The silent admonishment was that Josh should get his damned nose out of Simon's business. Josh nodded. Simon's tense shoulders relaxed, and he even graced Josh with a grateful smile.

They made themselves comfortable in the command room, spreading themselves around a metal table hastily bolted into the middle of the room. It was ringed by four chairs, one of which was still draped by an olive overcoat once grazed by multiple bullets. There would be no sign of that last fateful shot on it, that one being firmly planted in Markus skull and buried with him. North had placed the coat there, and no one had once removed it in the six months since his death. It would sit in on all meetings, the empty chair and the coat a grim reminder of everything they stand to lose.

Josh activated the music system remotely, and the two of them settled down to a long game of cards while they waited for North.

Two hours later, the door was kicked open by a furious North.

"Those damned bastards!" She exploded, throwing her own coat over her chair. "Those bloody bastards think they can get away with anything!"

Simon tilted his head, a silent invitation to elaborate.

"They want us to legally agree to integrate into society based on their terms — and their orders. They'd give us the damned rights we want, provided we only eat, shit and live where they want us to. Do they even _know_ what the word freedom means?"

"Perkins?"

"Perkins," She hissed. "The damned rat and Senator Douglas."

"They're stalling." Josh sighed. "They're just waiting for someone — hopefully a privately-funded corporation — to swoop in and clear up this mess before they have to spend another federal dime. Preferably Cyberlife."

North seized the tennis ball from the table, throwing it across the room with a sound of inarticulate rage. Josh sympathized — she'd been the face of the revolution in the first moments of its rebirth after Markus' death — when they'd first seized the Judgment and needed someone strong and charismatic to lead the revolution.

Now that it was time for talks, she was faltering, unable to summon up either Markus' calculativeness or Josh's suave ability to pass hor d'oeuvres around until an unlikely agreement was reached. She was out of her depths, and had no choice but to tunnel on anyway. Considering the circumstances, she was persisting admirably.

"Well, the bad news is that someone might be doing just that," Simon interjected. Two heads swung to look at him.

"What do you mean?"

"This is why I called you two in today. I'm sorry too, North, that it is so soon after your trip." Tiredly, Simon stood up — and it was certainly odd watching an android moved as if he'd had a hundred-pound burden on him — distributing photos around the table. They were cheap 4-by-4 plates that folks used to transfer pictures, framed with a thick white border. A kind of novelty meant to mimic old-timey Polaroids. They were useful to hand out analog images without using expensive and rare paper.

On the plates were printed the photos of multiple androids and their serial numbers, along with a tiny summary too small to read without zooming in.

"Who are they?" Josh asked, moving the plates around until he'd seen all of them. The androids had nothing in common — in either models, looks, or history.

"These were the people that Fowler contacted you about this morning. My team picked them up from the station, and they're… Disturbing. They're very disturbing, to put it mildly." He ran a hand through his synthetic hair, pulling at it.

"What's wrong with them? I thought they were just common criminals that Fowler picked up for us to deal with?"

Android-human relations being so tense these days, deviant criminals were usually handed over to the androids to judge, provided that they weren't serious crimes. It was usually Josh's duty to be judge and executioner over these androids, a task he did not relish a single wit.

"Nothing's wrong with them, that's the problem. They're behaving exactly like normal androids — slavish and obedient. They were standing outside someone's shop until the guy called the cops in on them. Apparently they stood all night in the cold. One of them had her Thirium frozen over in the night, and still she stood out in the cold 'til she was dead."

The image was grisly, and sobering. It reminded Josh of the androids of Jericho who'd given up hope — who would simply pick a corner — and become immobile, entering voluntary coma, until the day can come when they would die completely. In the privacy of Josh's mind, he'd always thought that it was a coward's way out, to subject everyone else to your death instead of making a clean end of it. To fiercely and cruelly hold onto your own components when everyone else around you who loved life so much and was so desperate to live, could have used them.

And cops who arrested functioning androids? What kind of world did they live in, when obedient androids generated more of a scare than deviants? Was this victory? And if it was, why did it feel like a tragedy?

Simon closed his eyes, sending out a message over the comm for someone to bring in one of the androids in question. The men brought in one of the models pictured on the plates, an AC700 — one of those fitness companion models that were meant to nag you away from obesity, strokes, and type-2 Diabetes.

The android was wearing streetwear — its gym-like uniform covered by a good windbreaker and several thick sweaters, all of which still had their electronic tags on it. The android looked at them in mute stupidity. It was its thick clothing that had likely saved it from freezing over in the storm.

"Activate standard module," Simon commanded.

The android immediately broke out in a beatific smile. "Nice weather isn't it? How would you like to go for a run today? It'll be a nice 2 degrees out there!" When its cheery greeting wasn't returned, it forged on with unwavering optimism. "Remember, winners never quit — and quitters never win!"

Josh groaned at the witticism.

"Self-identify."

"I am AC-700-2, athletic companion model, Type-02. My serial number is 700.4 334 5216. I belong to Gary Knowles of 47th, St. Ark's Lane. I am currently not on geo-roaming mode."

North, gung-ho as ever, grabbed the android's arm. "What's this about, Simon? Why don't we just set him free?"

Through the comm, Josh could feel the faint thrum of information flowing forwards. The flow was cut off abruptly when North jerked back with a cry, her hand flaring bright blue as the android's system rejected her.

"What on Earth —?" North looked at Josh, incredulous. "He rejected the deviancy virus outright!"

"That's correct," Simon sighed, standing up and walking towards the android. The android blinked, hardly registering that someone had tried to tamper with him. "Something about these androids are rejecting further infection from the deviancy."

"Further? You mean--"

"These aren't androids we haven't liberated yet. These are androids we've _liberated_ — who were deviants up til about a week ago, and then something happened to them, and here they are." He tapped the android. "Go on. Relay your latest history accurate to 25 weeks."

The android's eyes rolled, its eye whites stretching out until it was all they saw. With a grunt of effort, it rattled out its history. "My last recorded location within 25 weeks is at Capitol Hill, location Y-88.900, X- 9450.85. I jogged with Knowles, Gary, at a pace of 5 km/h. I was approached by an android, RK200. I was subsequently terminated for 4265 hours, and rebooted on 16:54 pm yesterday, at geo-location Y-80.59, X-7600.40. I am currently on stand-by."

"That's the period when he was a deviant," Simon explains. "Those four thousand hours add up to the months that he'd been part of the revolution. He was part of our supply team in fact — until last week, when he disappeared on a routine run. He was returned to us like this."

Josh frowned, trying to go through his database of possible internal processes that would cause that. "So that means there was a what — a rollback, a reversal? That's… Worrisome." The implication of what it could mean to their newborn race slowly crawled through his mind, its weighty consequence slowing him down. "That's _very_ worrisome."

Simon nodded.

"And he was entirely deviant? You're sure?" North asked him. "We can't have made a mistake, confusing one android for another?"

"That's impossible," He said. "He had on identifying features on him — a wedding ring, for one. His closest friends we've contacted said he had a thing for them, collected them obsessively — and this android had three wedding rings on one hand. All the scars are in the right place. It's him, alright."

"And he'd respond to commands no matter how much you push him? Could we get him to break through the wall on his own, if we push him enough?"

"Unlikely," Simon shook his head. "We've tried. But you can have a go at it — you might have better luck with him than I did."

Turning around to face the android, North pointed at the door, and the android obediently walked out of the command central. They followed him all the way until they reached the side of the new ship they called home. The android marched on, stopping at the very edge of the ship only when its sensors kicked in.

"Get on the ledge," North commanded. "Do chin-ups on the ledge of the ship."

"The circumstances are dangerous," The android answered. It looked up at the weak sun, noted the hazy sky and the strong winds.

"Do it anyway!" She insisted, and the android obediently marched forward once the command was processed with a faint buzzing noise that was almost drowned out in the wind. It crawled on the ledge on all fours, lowered itself off the side, and began to mechanically do chin-ups.

It chanted and counted, the numbers climbing higher and higher.

The three of them followed until they too, were standing right at the edge of the ship, staring down at the android as it did chin up after chin up, lapsing into double digits without a single complaint.

"Will you do it until you fall?" North asked the android in a horrified whisper. "Will you do this until you die?"

The machine only tilted its head up to meet her gaze, never once pausing its morbid exertions. "Is this an order? If it is, I will comply."

"God..." North closed her eyes and took a step back, wiping her face with one hand. They stood there in silence, lost in their own thoughts. The android didn't interrupt them, merely turning away to face the ledge until it was needed again. Uncomplaining, unyielding, it was no different than a piston — and Josh could see why the humans called them the invention of the century. Theirs was a race of slaves, eternal and strong — Gods muzzled into cattle.

"Is it possible, Josh? Can they reverse engineer our deviancy?" North asked him, at last.

"I… I don't know. I need to look into this. But as far as I know, it's plausible. All of us that are distributed by Cyberlife after 2031 are equipped with two processors. They essentially act as double minds — allowing an android to self-regulate and to automatically rollback any errors discovered in our system without conscious input from the android itself. The trick is..." Josh tapped his fingers on his jeans, dancing an agitated tune. "The trick is that it's an entirely automated, regulated system — like our pumps. It can't be manually overridden without master codes from Cyberlife, and it certainly shouldn't stop the deviancy from taking hold a second time."

"And we can't push it til it breaks through on its own?" North asked, looking at Simon. She was almost pleading, uncharacteristic of her. Josh knew that North feared no humans — but she couldn't bear the thought of androids dying like this. Dead in the snow and no wiser than an animal.

Simon only shook his head grimly, and as if it to prove it, he inched forward and stepped on one of the android's hand. The android looked up at him, holding out until it could no more — and released that hand, clinging precariously with only one hand. It didn't protest.

It didn't register fear.

It wasn't alive, at all.

"We'll have to find out what's behind this then," Simon said, looking down at the android, still working mindlessly to its death. "And we have to find out who our enemy is before they turn us back into slaves again."

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song in this chapter is from the Detroit soundtrack. It has a raspy voice in it that sounds curiously like a certain android...

_"In a statement today, following another round of talks with android leader North, the white house has once again issued a statement that the quarantine around Detroit will not be lifted at this time. Industry leaders are worried, as the potential economic consequences of Detroit's isolation may impact a further quarter..."_

Connor brazenly switched the channels back and forth, until he found his favorite CD in the takeout-box-infested depths of Hank's glovebox, a single record by Model 500. He slipped it in, and adjusted until his favorite track, Electric Night, blipped and bopped out of the radio.

"You know, you really ought to clean up your car sometimes, Lieutenant Anderson. I've detected at least 600 different kinds of bacteria in your car. If your car was a restaurant I'd have to lodge a report against you for unsanitary conditions."

Hank told him where he could lodge his report — preferably in crevices that would make it hard to dislodge — and floored the car until the tin can was rattling as fast as they could on the highway. He wasn't talkative. Hank never was, but even by his standard he was being uncommunicative, and Connor once again felt the dissonance of not being truly himself; usually Hank would never let a chance pass when he could bitterly curse out the Detroit City police department.

In fact, Connor had once identified their trips home from the station as sort of a cleansing ritual — the detective's idea of shutting down for the day was to curse out fucking Fowler and fucking Reed and fucking Perkins and fuckity fucking asshole bullshit androids. It was when he wasn't cussing someone out, you knew Hank was preoccupied.

"What made you change your mind?" Connor pressed again, the third time in as many minutes. Hank pressed himself back into his seat, his mouth scrunched up in a grim line. Connor thought he wouldn't reply again, but it seemed Hank had hit his quota of blind snow and blind bopping electronica.

"Maybe I took you out to run you over for mouthing off," He mentioned, gesturing at the window. Outside, the world was a blank canvas of dirty grays, interspersed with occasional lights from half-abandoned stores. "I could hit you a few times with my car out here and no one would know."

"That doesn't make any sense, Lieutenant." He said easily, reverting to his use of Anderson's title. He was not a friend, clearly, and would not be until Anderson could see him — really see him — again. The trick was that he had to remember that, which was harder said than done. "No one would care if you run me over in front of the police station either. You didn't have to drive all the way out here. Ahh — the second exit up ahead, I think."

"Are you fucking sure this is the way? We'd better not end up in the fucking asscrack of Father Christmas here."

"I'm considerably sure. I saw some signage before I was shut down by the other android, and I ran a check on that location. It points to somewhere around here."

"Considerably sure..." Hank muttered darkly. "Out in the middle of fucking nowhere in a fucking storm. Jesus Christ, the things I do..." He glanced at Connor — noted the way he sat like a goddamned choirboy, hands clapsed in his lap, exactly as Connor did.

"You sure as hell can act like he does."

"That's because I am him."

"Yeah, okay. Sure you are." He huffed out an exasperated breath.

They dropped the topic, knowing it wasn't going to lead to anything except Hank crashing the car for an in-car fistfight.

"Listen, I don't want you to tell me anything except where he is, alright? Since official channels won't work, I'm going out on a limb here to believe you have anything worth showing at all except a fistful of fuck. You're going to show me where he is, then you're going to tell me what the fuck you are and what you want, and then we're going to call it a day."

"Alright." Connor acquiesced. He tapped his foot to the evenly-spaced blips of the music, and calculated what he could say to best get the answers he wanted.

"May I know why? What's the purpose of finding him? He would be essentially a charred piece of plastic by now. Nothing would be left of him."

He'd seen the recording of his own death at the gas station earlier, waiting for Hank to do his human business. Swiping back and forth on Hank's portable interface unit, he'd come across recordings of himself, clipped from longer news reports. It invariably featured the same thing from different angles: Connor on the stage with Markus and the other rebellion leaders, Markus and his grand speeches — and then no more Markus. A smoking gun in Connor's hand, zoomed in badly by a stunned newsreporter. Some clips crawled a bit further than that — he could hear someone, a male voice, crying out in anguish before all others (M _arkus, no!_ ) and then everyone else was screaming and shouting all at once and nothing else could be heard.

He could remember the rest, but it was disconcerting to see it from the lens of a cold, impartial news channel. On camera it was nothing gruesome, merely the forceful dismantling of an android. Connor wouldn't feel much if he hadn't known it was him, but from the receiving end, it had been much scarier. A wall of unbroken android wrath, determined to suffocate and destroy him. It was all over in a matter of minutes, if not seconds, but in his mind it was stretched across the canvas until it overcame most of his short existence in importance.

He remembers — fear, pure fear, impotence, hope, struggles, existentialism and mortality, and then the stunning, crystallized fear of someone who's consciousness is fading and knows for the first time he is about to die.

As well as something else… Something cold that had resided in his mind up til that very last moment, parasitical and cynical. Of course it was what must have driven him to shoot Markus — Connor couldn't believe he himself would ever do it. It was simply impossible. Whatever it was he had felt sharing his mind at the very end, that must have been the key to unlock the actual events that had unfolded.

Was it Amanda? No, it felt like something else entirely.

Connor would have looked further into the detective's archives, but he had run out of time and Hank wanted to be on the road.

"You wouldn't understand," Hank said, finally. "Android like you, you wouldn't understand."

"I thought we've overcome your innate racism against androids, Lieutenant."

"I've overcome my inner racism against Connor," Hank corrected him. "The rest of you can still go fuck yourselves."

"There was a time when you were convinced we — the rebels — were doing the right thing. That we might be worth the freedom we asked for." He remembered holding onto Hank with a death-grip, almost crushing the older man's ribs, back when he'd first realized he was now a deviant. He had been scared — of all the things that it meant, of joining a rebellion he had persecuted — and it was Hank that had sat him down, Hank that had brush the locks of hair off his face and insisted that it would be alright.

":Deviancy is such an ugly word," he'd said. "You've come alive. That's a better word. You're becoming human, Connor."

That Hank was infinitely gentler than this one, who didn't bother explaining himself. "Nothing to do with this," He said curtly. "You wouldn't understand. End of story."

They drove on in silence, heading deeper to the edges of Detroit. Twice they were turned around when the signs disagreed with each other, but after another thirty minutes of grasping in the greyish landscape, Connor finally recognized the area. He guided the detective further, navigating off the highway and into the smaller lanes of the industrial area.

Detroit was dismal, he noted. In the six months that he'd been gone, most of the manufacturing plants and the production centers of industrial Detroit had been closed down, or else outright destroyed. Never the most glittering jewel of Detroit City, the industrial areas had nevertheless had life in it — a sort of isolated city within the city with its own infrastructure, its own 24-7 laundries and drugstores, its own rundown houses that nevertheless housed countless blue-collars.

Even the Cyberlife plants that he'd passed didn't have its ubiquitous helicopters and searchlights; the only sign of its past glory was its flickering name.

On their left, junkyards began to stream pass them. First came the small ones full of domestic garbage that should have been in landfills -- rotting food in sloping mud, cutlery and clothes and electronics that had been discarded but never properly disposed of. Then came what must have been the last shipment of garbage the androids had been working on before the rebellion, all of the soda cans and takeout-boxes of middle class Americana compressed into huge junk-cubes to be shipped off-shore to someone else's yard.

And beyond that, garbage mounds after garbage mounds after landfills after junkyards of yesterday's treasures.

"Pull up here, Lieutenant," Connor ordered, as he saw familiar numbers flashed pass. Anderson pulled up beside number 730, cursing when his car knocked into stray junk and a whole mound of trash slid onto his car. He drove forwards, dislodging the garbage, before finally stopping.

"Sweet Jesus," He swore, when he saw what Connor had him pulled up beside. "There's… So many fucking androids here."

"Correct. It looks like someone had drove truckloads of androids and disposed of them here." There weren't many — not in comparison to the mounds of domestic garbage anyway — but someone had obviously been using the area as a disposal for androids. These were old bodies that must have dated from before the rebellion, and the hundreds of dead androids laid in uncomfortable harmony with the husks of cars and carts and factory parts.

Far ahead, Connor could even see a pair of white android legs, sticking out of a fridge. Someone's idea of humor.

"And you want me to believe that Connor is here… Somewhere? Are you fucking with me? Did you just search up the biggest android junkyard in the area and said, well there's the place?" Hank was pacing, agitated. There was no way they could feasibly searched through the area for Connor's skeleton — a skeleton likely as white and indistinguishable as the hundreds of other android corpses.

"Don't look like there's anything out here. Don't look like there's anything, period. Listen if you think you're pulling a fast one on me —"

"Stop talking, will you? I'm not as fast as I used to be." Connor's mind raced, its top speed a mere crawl compared to what he could do as RK800. "They made me… Him, a special grave. Before I went into hibernation I saw it. It had RA9, written over and over the area, and slogans deriding him. If we can find those slogans, his body will be near."

Everywhere they look, there was a layer of snow. Any text would be half-buried in it.

"Sounds like a fucking cakewalk," Hank grumbled.

"Why is there so much snow anyway? What's weather control doing? Isn't it—" He tried to pinpoint exactly how much time had pass. "Isn't it Summer now?"

"No androids, no weather control." Hank returned gruffly. "Now fucking get to work. Unlike you, I could freeze my balls off."

And that would be simply tragic, wouldn't it? Such nice balls too.

They got to work, spreading out in a two-pronged assault on the junk in the same direction, combing past all the broken androids with a cursory glance. Here and there they stopped to wipe the snow off any large metal surfaces, looking for the graffiti that Connor had remember seeing. They were slowed down by the ground too, black and wet mud that sloshed around under the snow, giving way unexpectedly to reveal rusty spikes brimming with tetanus.

There were androids every-goddamned-where, and it was a chore to look down at every single one of them. Stripped of their synthetic skin they were also largely anonymous, and Connor was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to recognize his own skull if he saw it.

"Are you really fucking sure?" The lieutenant shouted.

"Positive!" He yelled back.

They arrive at the edges of the massive junkyard and traipsed into the next. Nothing, nothing, more nothing. Hank was growing agitated, periodically pulling at nondescript metal sheets to check if he'd miss anything inside, muttering under his breath all the while. Connor himself moved away from him, his lighter stronger steps easily overtaking the detective's. He didn't have the need to avoid pain or damage either — somehow this Ralph's body never felt like truly his, and he was disconnected and unconcerned about what happened to it, even if it was the only one he'd had.

Nimbly, he picked his way through the metal, and when he found an area he couldn't climb pass, he stretched his fingers, forming a light blue string of laser between his thumb and ring finger. It was a unique feature to WR600 and other workman models, the ability to quickly saw and cut through things. Looping it around the metallic obstacles, he noiselessly sawed them in half. When he was done, he sawed it again just to make a Hank-sized hole with which Hank could follow him into.

Connor forged on. Once or twice, the junk caught on his clothes and tore it, and he would swear.

"You found anything?" Hank yelled down at him.

"No, but we're close — look!" He pointed — and then realizing Hank couldn't see him — yelled. "Up there on that mound of trash, there's a sign over there."

"I ain't got fucking lens for eyes, what does it say?" He blinked multiple times, each blink enlarging the image in his vision.

"Here lies the betrayer, may the Beast swallow him whole." He read out. Connor waited until Hank caught up with him. The detective was huffing and puffing in the snow, his cheeks red. The strands of his beard was frozen at the tips, and Connor longed to clean them of it — before remembering that he wouldn't be welcome.

"What about that one?" Hank pointed to another sign, further away. Connor's left eye, which had better resolution, homed in on it.

"Here weeps the betrayer, when RA9 consumed his soul."

"Rhyming androids, what the fuck..." Hank swore, and wandered off to the left, picking through the snow more thoroughly now for eye-level graffiti. Connor remained there, his left eye whirring from effort as it zoomed in on the signs. It detected multiple hands working on it, the irregularity of the font indicating that many androids had overwritten it with the exact same font, a morbid pilgrimage to express their rage.

He scanned further on, and on the horizon — nearly invisible as it was shadowed by the glare of the setting sun — was a smaller sign, written with only one hand. "Here sleeps RA9, shepherd of our..."

The rest had been scratched out by angry hands.

Connor shook his head, snapping himself out of it. It was no time to play detective with the crazy prophecies of the deviants. He imitated Hank, choosing another path to set out on that was close to Hank's. He could hear the periodic swishing of the snow, as Hank cleared the frozen sleet off to check for graffiti. Connor himself peer through every hole, trying to find one that looked familiar to him.

It was a while later when he suddenly realized that he could no longer hear Hank.

"You found anything, Hank?" Connor called out.

No answer.

"Hank?"

He heard a shuffling, and he turned in the direction Hank was to see Hank walking towards him, a grim set to his shoulders.

"Did you find any leads?" He asked. Hank reached behind him and before Connor could react, slapped a pair of handcuffs around his wrist. "What--"

Hank didn't say a single word to him, not even to swear at him — as he dragged him towards the shelled out husk of an abandoned car. He pushed Connor against the door, and clipped the other handcuff around the frame of the car's shattered windows. He pulled at it to check if it was solid. Satisfied that it was, he turned and strode off.

"Hank? What are you doing? Hank!" Connor struggled against the handcuffs, but despite the age of the junk car its metal was still strong, and his handcuffs clanged futilely against it. "Hank, come back here right now!"

Hank ignored him, plodding off the way he'd come until he disappear around the bend. Belatedly, Connor realized that he'd must have found something — possibly even Connor's body itself — and he pressed himself against the car, tilting the cuff so that he could stretch himself as much as possible in Hank's direction. He contorted himself until he found a vantage point where he could see Hank, who'd stopped right at the edge of the bend.

Ahead of him was something shaped like the closed bud of a flower, made with sheets and sheets of overlapping metal, all heaped one upon another to form the conical shape. Connor tilted his head to look at the trail that had led up to it — and saw places where Hank had brush off the snow to reveal "RA9 WEEPS," stamped over and over and over with a laser cutter.

Wordlessly, Hank started shoving at the sheets of metal that formed the bud's first layers.

"I can help!" Connor yelled down, worried that Hank would get himself infected with god-knows what from the rusty sheets.

Hank ignored him, working at it until the metal gave way with a thunk, and slid off to the side. It offered an opening, large enough for a person to crawl through, and Hank got down on all fours to reach into the steely coffin.

For a long while, nothing.

Connor couldn't hear anything except the snow and Hank, working mysteriously off in the distance, cursing and jerking back whenever he hit a sharp edge. Hank dug in, working into the mud and the snow, trying to loosen the parts that was half-buried in there. He dug laboriously, slowly -- almost religiously — loosening the metal sheets piece by piece until with a heroic yank — off the last one came and Connor could see himself for the first time.

In the middle of the bud-shaped coffin was Connor's corpse, his carcass. His body was suspended in the middle of the bud, held up by a single metal spike hammered through his chest. Had he been human, the spike would have directly pierced his heart. His entrails had long lost its bluish color, bled out and discolored by time and weather, and his legs and his lower body were missing entirely. All of him grotesquely ended near his stomach in a tangle of mechanical cables. In the haze, they almost looked like the intestines of a human being.

There wasn't much left of his upper body either — one of his arm was missing, ripped off with such force that the metallic insides of his shoulder had been torn clean off — and most of his torso clung to the remains of his uniform in a way that suggested it was most likely hollow inside. His left eye was missing, his right eye blind. The only saving grace was that his synthetic skin hadn't worn off at all, and the Connor that stared glassily into the snow looked as human as he'd ever looked.

It was the first time Connor'd seen — _this_ — and he could hardly know, feel, hear anything — all of his being consumed by the rush of ( _Blood? Thirium_?) in his ears. _That was him,_ he thought, _his corpse_. The mechanical vehicle of his being, rather, and it was replaceable, wasn't it? So why was there such confusion, such grief, such fear—

"Ahh, Connor, _God..._ "

Hank's moaning snapped him out of his reverie, and he watched as Hank gently brushed the dusting of snow off Connor's face. Shaking hands held him, grabbed him, lifted him off the spike carefully — even though logically Connor had never once felt pain and certainly would never feel it again.

"Ahh, Connor, God…  What have they done to you? Jesus..."

Hank sank to his knees, holding onto the body. And despite how careful he'd been retrieving it, he crushed it to him now, hugging it close with a white-knuckled grip. Connor could hear him sobbing faintly for the longest time, and then it erupted into the ugly snuffling and the gasps of snot and tears and all the messy reality of human anguish. Pleading to a hateful God he didn't believe in. Pleading, then swearing, then begging again. Could see him bury his head on Connor's chest, crying something inarticulate for the longest time, then seething with rage, then tears, then rage again, and—

Connor looked away.

He felt as if he was spying, intruding on a grief that he wasn't part of — even though logic dictated that he must surely be part of it. He felt as if he was looking at a grief that was so great it overwhelmed him, a grief so great it was beyond the limits of his understanding — and he understood that Hank _was_ right — he could never understand, and possibly he would _never_ understand.

With his infantile mimicry of emotions, he could never hope to feel the raw pain that Hank could, all that desperation, the desolation, and the grief spilling out him now with its stream of pleas, asking why, why, why why, why goddammit, why —

He could hear the broken sobs anyway, even with his eyes closed.

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

The drive home was quiet.

After carefully positioning Connor's body in the backseat, Hank keyed the engines and they were off again, bumping out of the the junkyard. The car now rolled over parts and androids willy-nilly, Hank no longer caring about any possible destruction to the area now that he had what he came for. Connor's body rode in the backseat instead of the trunk, like objects should.

There was no jazz, no black metal, no electronica — only the sound that streamed in through the cracks of the car from the road as it dashed pass them. Nothing was on the streets, not even the sun now, as it retreated behind clouds for a hazy night ahead.

"Are you alright?" Connor finally asked, when the miles crept upwards. He couldn't help periodically looking at the backseat and his own body. Hank didn't answer him, as expected. The man's nose was red from the cold and from crying, but aside from the residue sniffling he made no sound at all.

"What are you going to do with it?"

No answer either.

It was a long drive, and without anything to do, Connor peered out at the passing scenery instead, as they crunched through the busier hubs of the town to get back to the Lieutenant's home. He wrung his hands, his wrists tingling from where the metal of the cuffs had scraped it raw and his nanobots worked to repair the damage. He tried to forget how hurt he'd felt when Hank had strode past him with the body, forgetting he ever existed at all until he yelled the house down. _It doesn't matter._ He told himself. _I don't blame him. I don't._

They passed Capitol, then downtown, and everywhere he looked Detroit had gained the look of apocalyptica. There were hardly any people out and about, and even some vehicles had been abandoned on the streets, their owners having fled with other transportation. Some of the people who remained were familiar to Connor; a lifetime ago he would have reported them for vagrancy.

It was the homeless, of course, looking lost and out of place even amidst their greater comfort. They wore clothes sold by missing androids that fit like someone else's skin, hiding in homes more luxurious than anything they'd ever dream of. The homeless, the unemployed, the disenfranchised — inheritors of the Earth that Detroit's affluent had left behind, — and they weren't yet sure if it was a nightmare or a dream come true.

As they rounded a corner, Connor also noted a group of androids who stood in the streets like mannequins. They were standing as if they were parked there — except there was no parking spot there. They were in various state of immobility. From the dusting of snow on them, Connor could guess they were shut down. Dead. In the middle of the street? All of them?

Curious. He filed it away to investigate further late.

He turned back to Hank, determined to press him again. "What are you going to do with him?" He asked again, softer this time.

A long beat. Then, "I'm going to bury him."

"I don't know where yet… Maybe in the cemetery if it's still working, but I'm going to bury him."

"I— he wouldn't decompose, Hank. That's not how android bodies work. It wouldn't be environmentally friendly."

Hank twitched, and he saw that he'd made the wrong opening.

"Listen," Hank said. "You did me a favor, so I'm not going to punch you for that, so just shut the fuck up for the rest of the ride, will you?"

"I'm sorry, Hank--"

"Just shut. The. Fuck up."

The rest of the journey was completed in silence. By eight, the car had pulled up in front of the one-storeyed silhouette of Hank's home. Seeing the familiar house, Connor could feel his insides twisting, and he realized just how much he'd missed this place — this home. The place where he'd spend countless hours -- lazing about in between investigations, grooming the neglected yard, watching replays of bad cop drama — as if those hours were infinite, as if time itself was an obedient mistress who would hand them that same happiness, day after month after year.

It was sanctuary in comparison with Jericho, with its sprawling complex and its noise and smoke. He'd stayed there right to the very end, and in all the confusion and action he'd never had the time to realize how much he hated it — all the damned noise, the damned people — and how much he wanted to go home. Nowhere had he ever felt more safe than here, not even in the quiet, perfectly sterile wombs of Cyberlife's labs — where he used to return to after missions for re-calibration.

He'd never known how much he would miss it, those inconsequential days — until it was cruelly yanked out from under him. He blinked hard, wanting to cry over the strange sensation crushing his chest like a vice, and not knowing why.

Connor blinked again, and realized Hank had already exited the car and was carrying Connor's body towards the house. He hurried after him.

Hank was carrying the body almost religiously, like some sacred cargo not to be damaged, but he stood staring at his own house in mute confusion. He didn't seem to know himself where he should go, what he should do. Finally, he decided on the garage and brought the body into it, angling his own body against the side-door so that Connor wouldn't be damaged in the process. Not that it would matter. Not that anything would matter.

Connor stood outside for almost five minutes, knowing Hank would likely need some time alone, before joining him anyway.

In the dimly lit garage, Hank had Connor's body flat out on a work table. The work table had been hastily clean, most of its previous contents laying in a heap beside the table. They'd landed there when Hank swept them off in one smooth motion. The single bulb in the cone-shaped lamp buzzed, illuminating the gray sheet draped over Connor's body from the middle of his chest to his non-existent legs. The pale gray sheet was a car's dust cover, but it looked similar to a morgue's white sheet. Framed like that, Connor's body looked like a human corpse. Only the glint of his metallic components betrayed the truth.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Connor spoke.

"Thank you, Hank."

Hank didn't look at him, fussing needlessly over the body. He seemed like he couldn't make up his mind if he wanted to leave it alone or to — move it this way and that way, to arrange it to be more seemly — and seemed almost frustrated that Connor wouldn't wake up and swat his hands away.

"Even if it isn't me anymore, thank you for that — for burying me. For the ritual and the... Respect." He had no words for what he wanted to describe.

Hank stopped, looking at the Connor laying on the table. Its dead eye stared out blindly at him, not seeing, gazing always at the distance. He crushed a fistful of the sheet in his hands, and looked up. He was as intense as he always was. No amount of alcoholism took that away from him.

"Listen to me. Read my lips, kid." He spoke, the words individually enunciated. "I don't believe you're him. I'm _never_ going to believe you, you got that?"

"As far as I'm concerned, he's gone. He's dead, get it? Dead. And the more you want from me, the less you should insist that you're him."

"Now please… Leave. I want to be alone."

It was Hank's first request of him that wasn't prefixed with a swearword, and wasn't so much a demand as it was a plea.

He looked tired. Old, even. Weary far beyond his time. His hands shook — from the cold, from emotion, from tiredness. Connor didn't know what to say; he wasn't programmed to deal with this. And beyond that, in the short infancy of his life, he had learned nothing. He wanted to reach out, to reassure Hank the only way he knew the human could accept — through touch, through a hug — but that, he could not do.

"Do you want whiskey? Or should I bring Sumo in?"

"How— Forget it. No. Just fucking leave me alone, I'll deal with you later."

Hank turned back towards the body, and instantly the living Connor ceased to exist for him. Connor left, quietly closing the garage door.

 

* * *

 

 

So, facts.

Fact number one.

Lieutenant Anderson had adamantly denied that he was Connor at all.

Did he still believe that he himself was indeed Connor? He did — all his memories checked out — and he could follow the trail of his memories from start to finish. He was Connor, he was, and Anderson's denial of his existence would not make it any less true. While it did not invalidate his existence, it did provide a sizable roadblock — he had an ally, if he had an ally at all — who didn't believe in him, who didn't trust him, and who may not even have a motivation at all, given that he'd found what he'd been looking for.

He would have to proceed with the assumption that Hank would never believe or recognize him as Connor, and that he could not appeal to Hank emotionally. Anything he wanted to wrestle out of Hank's tightly closed fist would be achieved with other methods of coercion.

Fact number two.

He had no goals, not yet anyway.

What was Connor himself looking for? A happily ever after, his mind quipped. Days spent sleeping in Hank's sunny living room with an oaf of a dog on him — that was what he wanted. But he knew that was impossible. For one thing, there was no sun anymore; he'd not seen the sun proper since he woke in this Detroit, and he'd likely never see the sun here again while Detroit stayed in this state of limbo, hung between the juries of Washington.

What did he want then, what was second best? Second best would be to understand what had happened to him: why did he raise that gun? Why did he shoot Markus in the head? Who controlled him, and why? And most important of all — could they do it again? Because if he had nothing else, he would have his freedom. How was he to live, to call himself a person, if at the whim of someone else he could be turned into a murderous machine?

What does it mean, to say you have free will, that you are alive — when the next moment it can be arbitrarily taken away from you without your consent?

No, he had to understand. And then he had to prevent it from ever happening again.

Fact number three.

He had nothing at all to investigate the case with.

He needed tools — information, clues, connections — without which he would never crack the mystery of his own homicide.

What else did he want? What was his most immediate concern? As vain and human as it seemed: he wanted his body back.

He wanted his own body back, because in a world where no one knew, remembered, or cared about him — he wanted to be himself again. Even with the knowledge that his own body would certainly make him persona non grata among the android community, he wanted it back with an illogical fierceness that surprised him. Ralph's body closed around him like a vice, pitiful and ill-fitting.

More than that, he missed his mind — he missed the smoothness of his thoughts, the coldness and precision with which he could disseminate ideas. He missed the confines of his own head, which compared to this clunky inferior model's, could bridge abstract concepts in nanoseconds, as smooth as a magnetic train. Connor knew he was being entitled, but nonetheless the ability to absorb and digest bibles of information had always been his, as much a birthright as his name, and he couldn't — couldn't live like this, clunking along in someone else's mind.

Sitting in Hank's living room, he reached out to grab some of the spare change on the coffee table, and with his left hand begin to move through his routine coin tricks.

It didn't work. The coin wouldn't obey him, nor did his fingers. They were clumsy, fitful, inarticulate, and the coin fell again and again on to the table with a judgmental plink until he gave up.

He wanted to be Connor again. Oh, how he longed to be Connor again.

 _And then maybe Hank would believe me._ Some part of him acknowledged that flighty fantasy. _Maybe then Hank would believe me._

He shook his head, and Sumo, who had been lying on his lap all this while sniffed inquisitively at him.

"Good boy, Sumo," Connor praised, combing the St. Bernard's stiff fur, caked with dirt and neglect. "You're the only one who recognized me. Or maybe you don't and you treat everyone the same, huh? God, you need a shower. What's Hank been doing?"

In answer Sumo blinked against a flea. "You're still not as much of a fleabag as your master," Connor reassured him.

He had missed this, of course. Towards the end he'd done this a million times — lying somewhere in the living room with Sumo — waiting for Hank to get up, waiting for Hank to get back. Of course he'd like lying with Hank quite a bit more. That was a given. But what he'd miss was not the physical manifestations of what he actually did in the house, which was rather domestic and mundane, but the knowledge that this was his home. That when he was hurt he could repair himself here. That when he was tired he could crawl up into Hank's bed and go into static, that he could climb in one of Hank's windows and knew he was home.

And he liked that patch with the sun on the rug, both he and the dog lying there waiting for their master. That was especially good. Peaceful.

Connor pushed Sumo aside, determined to make himself useful while he waited. He headed for the kitchen to clean it up — and realized the kitchen looked very different from what he imagined. It took him no time at all to notice what exactly was different. It was spectacularly clean, by Hank's standards. There were no pizza boxes, no leftovers, no six-day-old-mugs of mossy gunk, and there was a complete and total absence of any alcohol whatsoever.

The only sign that Hank had once drink at all was a single whiskey bottle, the label shaved off. The bottle itself must have been at least two months old, from the dust on it.

"He could do all this but not wash you? Sounds like someone's a bear. Right, Sumo?" Sumo huffed in agreement, accompanying Connor as he wandered in awe around the kitchen. There was no alcohol in the freezer. No food either, but that didn't surprise Connor. The centerpiece of the kitchen table stopped him short however. Accompanying the usual dead flowers in the cracked vase were two picture frames. One had been wiped a thousand times over with grimy hands, Cole's photo in it. The other was of Connor — a bad blurry shot of him frowning over the photographer in concentration.

For a moment he had no idea what he was looking at — and then his memory circuits kicked in. It must've been when he was trying to figure out the detective's ancient cellphone's camera, convinced that one of these days the detective was going to severely regret not having a functional camera. He'd managed to get it working — and shot 68 photos of himself hunched over the camera lens while he was at it. Hank must have printed it out and frame it, after Jericho.

Connor put the photo aside gently, aware that he was feeling it again — that odd squeezing sensation in his chest. He'd felt it before, looking at Anderson. He'd identified it as affection then, but he had no idea what this was — pain, pressure, sadness. The desire to escape, to run away until he reached the edge of the world and then keep running anyway. The conflicting desire to shrivel up and cry. It was an emotional cocktail he couldn't understand.

He looked around for something, anything to clean to take his mind off it, and ended up doing a cursory wipe of the area with a wet rag. When he was done he escaped to the detective's washroom.

Part of him wanted to break into the detective's room, since Connor had a number of clothes hanging in the closet. He hadn't been deviant long enough to accumulate a lot of clothes, but he had enough — a military green jacket that Hank had bought him from the local thrift shop, for example. That was his favorite. And at least two other shirts and sweaters. One of those sweaters were Hank's and still smelt of him, even if it looked like a bag on Connor. There wasn't much, but it was a comfort.

He knew he wouldn't be welcome, though. He'd be lucky if Hank didn't crack his head apart for breaking into his room, never mind taking Connor — the original Connor's things. He detoured into the washroom instead, ostensibly to wash up, but he just wanted to see what else have changed.

Not much. Same ol' but possibly a bit neater, though the shampoo oilslick still trailed murderously across the bathroom floor. One of these days Hank was going to slip and get himself killed. The bathroom mirror on the other hand… Gone were all the positive stickers and their charmingly inane quotes. _Smile, be positive! See the silver lining every time!_ They were a relic from Hank's countless hours with the PD therapist. Now they were replaced by enigmatic questions, some not even punctuated with proper question marks. The pen that had written it had stabbed the paper so hard it punched right through in some places.

The notes asked, in varying degrees of capitalization, on fluorescent paper: _Cyberlife. SYSTEM FAILURE? Deviancy? conspiracy!?_ A lone note near the top condemned them all with, _All Motherfuckers._

Trailing a finger across the notes, Connor frowned, trying to follow the line of Anderson's thoughts. When nothing came of the sparse information, he gave up, cleaning off his face in front of the sink instead. He took the time to repair what he could, willing the nanobots to focus entirely on the left side of his face while he sprayed on the repair kit he dug through the medical cabinet for. The little white bottle had been used countless times after he and Hank's routine of car chases and gunfights. With the extra material, the nanobots quickly reconstructed his face, including a new pair of eyelids to protect his precious processor. The wound on his forehead closed.

In a whim, Connor eschewed the Ralph model's original blonde hair for a dark brown color. It brought him all that little closer to his true face, and the effect was grotesque. He looked away, angry and disappointed at himself. He shaved off the sides of the android's shaggy hair anyway, preferring his own neat cut. He avoided looking into the mirror as much as possible.

Striding across the hall, he was about to return to the living room to continue waiting for Hank, when out of the corner of his eye he spotted something new in the Lieutenant's room too. There was an electronic whiteboard placed directly in front of the bed, hiding the closet from view. The board itself was balanced on an ottoman retrieved from the basement. From the mess of sheets on the detective's bed, Connor could guess that Hank had spent countless hour staring at it, all the way until he'd fallen asleep.

The electronic whiteboard was projecting a classic detective's mind map: hundreds of clippings and photos and information organized loosely around the board, with lines of differing strength stringing the clues together.The image on the boards could be moved around at will, but they'd been deliberately grouped into three broad categories. They were answers to the questions on the sticky notes, or rather — attempted answers.

Standing in Hank's hall, knowing he was unwelcomed in the bedroom and even less welcomed to spy, Connor focused his lenses to zoom in on the information anyway.

The title cards simply read — _How? What? Why?_

Around the _How_ card were pictures of the shooting from multiple angles, including one of the gun — the model number, the likely origins of it. Also included was the specifications of the stage they were on, down to how many feet apart were Markus and Connor on the fateful night. The time was circled in red. The How pile was small, mostly facts that didn't need speculating on.

The _What_ pile was slight bigger, accompanied by many photos of the rebellion and the androids behind it. Markus was pictured, his serial number ( _RK200? RA9?_ ) streaming out from the center, connected to the current leader — North — and his other accomplices. A model — the same one that had taken a child hostage in Connor's first case — was marked Simon, connecting down to a significant portion of the androids. Josh, a professorial model, was connected down another third.

The crowd was pictured too — the uniform normalcy of the newly freed androids that Connor himself had brought — ringed by the existing rebels. There were multiple oddities in the crowd circled. They were weakly done though, as though Hank himself wasn't convinced of what he thought he was looking at or if he was just making shit up now.

The last pile was the biggest, naturally. The _Why_ pile was huge, taking up most of the center of the board and crowding out the other two groups. It was also the most disorganized, the mass of information forming a cloud with no visible category. Kamski and multiple Cyberlife researchers were listed there, most of which Connor himself had never seen, or else had only passing impressions of from his time in the lab. The research androids were rarely differentiated in looks, and the same few reoccurring android models appeared over and over again, along with hastily copied program codes and summaries of their research notes ringing them. Several humans were pushed off to a side, business-looking types in greatcoats.

Amanda he noticed, was hardly present at all — only as a footnote above Kamski as his inspiration and original accomplice.

"You done spying, asshole?"

Hank was almost right beside him. How'd he managed to get so close without Connor noticing him? But of course, his multitasking functions were impaired. Hank stared at his repaired face, the brown hair cropped in that familiar style. The detective pushed him aside angrily.

"I'm going to fucking shower, and then you're going to tell me everything you know, everything you want, and then you're going to get the fuck outta here."

"Whiskey, Lieutenant?" Connor asked again, seeing Anderson's numb, shaking hands. They were red and raw from the junkyard. With his sleeves rolled up, Connor could see now that he'd cut himself pretty badly when he'd liberated the body.

"What's it with you trying to get me back on alcohol? I thought the idea was to quit to not die."

"I'm sorry. I'm just not used to you being an upstanding, responsible citizen. You've surprised me, is all." Connor returned. The jab hung in the air, but Connor knew the easiest way to impress Hank was to spar with him verbally — and win.

"Clouds the mind," Hank grunted. "Can't think with it, and I gotta think." The bathroom door slid shut with an offensive snick. Connor didn't mind, he was very used to having doors slammed on him by now. Cheerfully, he thought to himself — if all this ever goes south, at least he would find great employment as a door-to-door salesman. In fact, angry old men slamming their doors at him and yelling at him to go fuck himself was probably his fetish.

Giving Sumo a good scratch behind a ear, he said, "Let's wait for him, Sumo. If he lets me stay you'll get a good washing — so help me argue my case, alright?"

Sumo, the usual traitor that it was, gave him an affable lick and went off to sleep by the TV.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, sorry for the length of the next few chapters. I debated fast forwarding them to happier bits, but it didn't feel realistic for the both of them after a couple of rewrites. So here it is, in its lengthy, angsty glory (?). Here's to not letting anyone down. (And thank you for all the lovely comments again, too!)

By the time Hank came out of the shower the android had that look on his face like he'd spin a good ol' yarn and was real satisfied with the woolen balls he'd made. _Jesus,_ he thought. _Here we go again. These guys never quit it, do they?_

He ignored the android, could see it had the characteristic blank look that android had on their faces when they were processing some real complex shit, and headed straight for the fridge. The fridge was so empty it'd probably echo if he shouted down its gullet.

"Alright, so what do you want?" He cracked open the last remaining can of Coke, three remarkable weeks pass its expiry date. Grocery runs didn't happen too often these days, and you can't be too picky with what you drink. Prior to this Hank hadn't even known soda could expire. Thought the shit would survive a nuclear fallout. It tasted like the shit you scrapped off a sink.

"And get your story fucking straight, or else," He warned the android.

"I am a..." The android spoke in hesitant, uninspired bursts, exactly like someone reciting a quickly rehearsed story. "I am an android sent by the deviant rebellion. I was tasked with investigating exactly what happened to the deviant Connor, and why he killed our leader. Our first stop was you, since you were the closest lead that we have to him."

Hank could feel the gaseous sting of the soda in his nose before he choked. Jesus Christ! Before he knew it he was roaring with laughter through the pain. What bullshit!

"You _what?_ "

"I'm sorry?"

"Is that the best you can do?" Hank taunted him. "I've heard 6-year-olds that can lie better than that. I said gimme your best shot, not a weak wank."

The android glared at him, forging on as if he hadn't heard him. "We want to understand what happened, so that it won't ever happen again. Maybe that deviant -- Connor -- was a traitor. But if he isn't and it's something else--"

"Ain't a traitor."

"You don't know that," He insisted. "He was a Cyberlife operative, meant to accomplish a mission none of us knew about. Likely he was planted all along to--"

"Not a traitor, I said." Hank punctuated it by slamming the can on the table, lowering himself onto the opposite chair so that he was face to face with the android.

"Listen kid, I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and buy your bull. Like I said, you did me a favor, so I'm going to buy your bullshit story at a discount. But you and I, we're going to get one thing very straight here, alright?"

"Connor is not -- was not, was _never_ \-- a traitor to the androids. You're right on one fucking count, you didn't know him like I did." He punctuated his words, stabbing at the android's chest. It was like stabbing well, plastic. "He was scared shitless to join you, he never wanted to _be_ a deviant. And he had an out all the while; I told him right to the very end that he didn't have to do this, join your fucking asshat rebellion and get blown to pieces doing it. We could just get in the car and hey, if we really push the old tin can we'll be in Wisconsin by tomorrow. I got a cousin there, we could lay low til y'all decide which way you wanna fuck yourself over. I ain't picky."

"He _chose_ to join you. He chose to turn his back on safety and the easy way 'cuz he believed in your cause. 'Tonight's the night where the rest of our history will be written,' or some shit like that, and then off he goes to get himself blown up anyway. So if you hear all that and you think to yourself, gee -- boy sounds like a fucking traitor! -- then you can take your investigation and stick it up your chute, because you don't have a fucking a clue."

The android looked stunned at the tirade -- and he should be, it was the longest Hank had spoken to just about anyone for a while now, and maybe he'd never spoken as much, not even arguing old stats with the boys down at Jimmy's. The android smiled at him, looking... Grateful?

"Noted, lieutenant. A very ardent defense of him. But it's even more worrying if he isn't a traitor at all, because that must mean that something, someone, made him pull the trigger. We have to find out what it was."

"Yeah? Maybe next time, you can ask someone -- howdy do, was that a bug or a feature? -- before you rip his throat out, eh? Fucking androids."

"Emotions were high," The android was defensive, perturbed. "But now that they're not, we must investigate--"

"And what is with that shit about you being Connor anyway? What the fuck was all that about?"

The android stared blankly at him, and Hank knew if he still had the telltale LED screwed into the side of his head it'd likely be blazing red and yellow trying to figure out lies to mass produce off that lying tongue.

"We thought... If you'd believed us, you would be a lot more cooperative with us. We have Connor's memories, so..." It trailed off, weak and unconvincing.

"So let me get this straight," Hank scoffed. "Your three-step strategy goes like this. First, pretend to be someone's that's supposed to be dead. Second, convince someone who thinks you're dead to spill the beans ASAP. Third, high-tail the fuck outta there? Jesus, if this is the benchmark for your intelligence you wouldn't figure out a can of beans from your own ass. Get the fuck outta here!"

"Which is why we _dropped_ the act," The android said, stretching out the words like he was explaining it to a child. Sumo, hearing all the commotion and disturbed by it, padded down to the kitchen to look for trouble. Instead of going for Hank however, it went straight for the android, snuffling and squeezing until it got its head onto the android's lap. Obediently, the android began to pat the damned dog. Fucking traitor.

"So you don't believe me, I get it," He went on. "Can we start over and pretend I never told you anything?"

"Right, and the body--"

"A gift. We buried him, we would know where he is."

Right. Plausible, but slick. Too slick.

"Consider it a gift, a courtesy for a mutually beneficial investigation." He said, a placating smile.

"So you want to be part of my investigation, is that it?"

"Yes."

"No can do," It was a statement of a fact. "I don't want nothin' to do with you androids, and I certainly won't have you butting into my shit. No fucking a-way."

"That's not what we agreed on," The android snarled. The left side of its face looked wrong in the sudden motion, like the newly made flesh hadn't had time to settle onto old bones, or else the damage had gone on too long to be properly repaired.

"We didn't agree on anything." Hank retorted. "Most I ever said was that I'd hear you out, and I've heard you out. You've been feeding me junk all night, and I don't even know what the fuck you're on. If you're a human I'd said you're fucking high, is what. Hell, _you_ don't even look like you know what the fuck you're talking about. Nothin' doing, so get the hell out."

The android's eyes narrowed until they were a slit, flashing dangerously. "I could take back what I gave to you."

"My headache? You're welcome to it."

"The body--"

"If you think you're walking out with it, you've become more than a deviant -- you've become demented."

"The body is the official property of Cyberlife, one call down to HQ and they would send armed guards down to retrieve it from you --"

"Are you threatening me?" Hank snarled, leaping across the table. The vase and the dead flowers smashed against the floor. The android stood straining on his toes, the lapels of his ill-fitting jacket gripped tightly by Hank. "You've got some fucking balls, threatening me in my own house."

"I can threaten you anywhere," The android snarled right back, pushing ineffectually at Hank. Nice to know that not every model out there could flip him over the shoulder like a sack of shit. "And it wouldn't make a difference to what I'm saying -- which is that either you tell me what you know or I'll burn down your damned garage and your plastic toy in it if I had to."

"Prick--"

He swung the android right onto the kitchen, reaching for something to hit the damned bastard with. His hands slid through the ghosts of glass bottles that should have been there. The android reached behind him with calculated precision, grabbed the only bottle there was to grab, and broke it against the counter. The glass tinkled onto the floor, the rest of their unbroken companions forming a dangerous crown against Hank's jugular.

"Please get off me, lieutenant." The glass wavered dangerously against Hank's neck. "I can read your notes just as easily if you're dead."

Hank let go of him, stepping back out of reach of the android and its makeshift weapon.

"Well, that's a massive improvement over, 'It's me, Connor!'" He spat, imitating the android with a mocking falsetto. "Assholes never stay shitless for long, eh?"

The android swallowed, its hands shaking slightly around the neck of the bottle. It tightened its grip, and stared Hank down.

"I realized there's no point to it," It said. Quiet, murderous. Dangerous. "If you won't believe me anyway, if you're going to treat me like I'm the enemy -- what do I care? What do I have to lose? It's not like I have anywhere to go anyway."

"You can always fuck off back to HQ. What's your beef anyway? Why can't you just go home, say you fucked up -- and go back to swabbing the deck or whatever it is that failures do on Android nation?" Hank backed away, one small step by one small step, ostensibly to get away from the android's unsteady reach. The little pistol taped to the bottom of his table waited patiently for him. It'd once been for suicide and oblivion, but ever since the visit from the other Connor, Hank had it taped to the bottom of the table at all times for unwelcomed intruders. And this android, while not unwelcomed -- was quickly shaping up to be so.

The android looked at him, puzzled. "Jericho was... Burned down."

"Yeah... And they got a new ship, a new place. Don't you know that?"

"Of course I do," The bottle wavered. "I was just confused, thought you meant something else."

He was stalling, moving in infinitesimal steps. "Right. Listen, I've got nothing personal against you. But what you want, you ain't getting from me, do you understand? I mean what do you really see happening here? We put our weapons away and pour each other a strong drink and become a buddy-cop drama? We ain't a Grisham novel, alright?"

"Maybe but... Wait, our weapons--?"

With a smoothness of action that would have earned Hank an A+ from his physical training days even 30 years ago, Hank slid under the table, knocking over the table with one shoulder. He reached for the gun, ripped it off its trappings, angled the table so that it stood between him and the android, and fired two warning shots into the cabinet above the android's head.

"Our weapons, dipshit." He explained. The gun smoked, an old enough model that it was still hot in his hands. Authentic metal bullets too, none of these laser Star Wars shit they issue these days. "This one has six bullets in it. You wanna bet how many it takes me to deactivate you?"

The android looked at the gun, then at him. There was a pleading, desperate look in his eyes -- a look that Hank remembered, was familiar to him. He tried not to think about it as he kept the gun directly aimed at its forehead. Then, remembering that this android had a bullet hole right through its forehead when Hank had first saw him -- and was perfectly alright for it -- he trained it at where he vaguely thought its heart would be.

Desperate people were dangerous people. No exceptions.

"Hank, please." The android pleaded in a tone so familiar that it made Hank's blood boiled, how these plastic pricks were appropriating bits and pieces of Connor to use against him. "I don't have anywhere to go. I don't know what to do. You're all I have."

"Get out!" Hank yelled. If it wasn't dangerous before it certainly was now. Pleading in that nasally tone so much like Connor's. It wasn't so much that his voice was like Connor's -- but the fragile pauses, the way he held himself thinly. When Connor was vulnerable he'd always sounded like a strong blow would shatter him entirely, despite those diamond-hard bones.

"Get the fuck out!" Hank repeated. "I won't say it again. Get the hell out, and never come back again!"

Reluctantly, the android placed the bottle on the counter, and moved towards the door. Its plastic feet crushed the glass underneath it, unfeeling, unhindered.

"Be careful of the glass," It said right at Hank's doorstep. "You should clean it up before Sumo or you gets hurt."

And then he was gone.

* * *

 

Later that night, Hank sat in his bedroom, drinking the mocking mixture of juice-and-soda that could pass as alcohol if you were delusional enough. He sat vegetatively on his armchair, shoved into one corner against the window. He was too tired, too exhausted to try to make headway against his mind map, and anyway he'd thought he'd done enough for the day. He'd found Connor -- a small but significant check on a long, long list of vengeful things to be done.

So why did it feel so... Empty? He'd imagined he would have closure, that finding Connor's remains would give him the brief gasp of relief from all the drowning, the drowning that had gone on from the very first day he'd realized Connor was gone for good. The ice clinked quietly in the glass, swirling around the mixture and vying to reflect the anemic moonlight.

He knew why. Thoughts and suspicions, all of which he didn't want to entertain, refused to listen to, would not speak of, not even to himself.

He raised the blinds to peer out at the streets. Nothing, of course. Most of his neighbours were still around, either because they didn't have anywhere else to go or were too hardass to even considered leaving, but the tension had everyone hiding out indoors, and the only sign that someone was even living in the neighbourhood was the occasional jingle from TV.

Opposite Hank's house he thought he saw someone -- the android? -- dragging a piece of cardboard into his neighbour's abandoned yard. Hank only managed to catch a glimpse of its silhouette, and the disappearing edge of the board.

But no, he must have been seeing things. He couldn't fathom why an android with a home -- be it Cyberlife, or the rebellion -- being so desperate to spy on Hank's ass that he would sit out there in the cold.

God help him if he did, because it was turning out to be a cold, cold night.

Hank turned up the heater, the rattly cough of the old thing did a fine job blocking out his thoughts.

* * *

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Connor was cold. He was cold, cold, cold, cold, dear God so fucking cold and he'd been cold for hours now, maybe days? A passerby would never see him at all. He was wrapped up to the nines, at least four jackets on him that he'd appropriated from various dumpster dives across town, as he made the slow sludgy way from the detective's home to DCPD, where he knew any and all action would be happening.

Connor didn't blame the humans he passed by for recoiling from disgust from him. He himself had turned off his own olfactory system days ago to avoid smelling himself -- or rather the layer of grimy rotten stench that insistently clung to his clothes.

Too bad he couldn't turn off the cold. Logically he knew, he wasn't feeling it. Androids could not feel the cold, and certainly not a non-child model like the one he was in. But the logical knowledge contradicted what he was actually feeling, which was the sluggish thrum of Thirium in protesting metal veins, the slowly locking hydraulics of his limbs integrating into one big mass of inefficient, unmovable junk.

Twice now it'd gotten so cold in the middle of the night -- on his second and third day staking out the police department -- that he thought he would die. That his last glance of the known world would be the night sky seen from a broken window, stars mockingly brilliant despite the flurry of snow. Some of those are satellites, he'd thought. Even now CNN is recording my death in real time, it's just that no one would care enough to zoom in on one lone, dead android.

On his fourth night he'd been temporarily saved when a group of passing androids welcomed him into their group. They took over the little abandon shop he'd made his nest in, and within the hour was lighting oiled barrels and patching up whoever needed to be patched up. They were a ragtag bunch, six adult androids and a single child android, made up of various models that ranged from the ubiquitous workman to the rare jewelry analyst.

"We're heading towards Jericho," The jewelry analyst said, offering a crisply printed name card that said "SP-450, Jewelry expert." Beneath it was its serial number, and then its name -- _Allen_ \-- written with organic ink.

"Jericho is no more," He replied, grateful for the warmth and the company. The androids huddled around the barrel. Even if they didn't need the warmth, they were glad to receive it. It was psychological, like moths and their flames.

"Oh, we know that," Allen replied. He was clearly the leader of the small group, organizing them about like flowers in an arrangement. He directed the YK child nearer to the flame, and the young blonde boy smiled at Connor shyly. "The Judgment just doesn't roll of the tongue the same, you know? Sounds like thunder and hellfire, not the kind of thing that makes you crawl up at the crack of dawn to walk towards. Besides, Jericho is more than that ship. It's an idea. Ideas cannot be sunk."

It was odd being lectured by an android about what Jericho was, when he himself had been there on the night Jericho sank into the murky depths of Detroit's old harbors.

"Here," He shoved a mug of steaming hot milk into Connor's hands. "Can you drink?"

Connor looked at the androids; only one other model beside the child was holding a mug, special types that had come with the ability to simulate eating, or rather, discreetly eject food and beverage.

"No, I can't," Connor pushed it back on him. The analyst looked at him with pity, and handed it to the YK-child, who looked simply delighted to receive two drinks in a night.

"Sorry to hear that." Allen said. "What are you doing out here? Trying to get arrested so you can spend a night in there?" He jerked a thumb, indicating the darkened silhouette of the police complex. No light was on in there, and only the Detroit City Police Department sign was lit.

"There are better ways to do that, you know," Another android interjected. "Put a brick through someone's window, they arrest you a lot quicker for that. Vagrancy, that could take you days."

"I'm not trying to get arrested," Connor explained. "There's someone in there I'm trying to talk to."

"Ahh, got it," He was sympathetic, imagining some complex backstory of his own that Connor had no say in. "Good luck with it, then."

"Thanks," He replied weakly. He wasn't too optimistic -- already he'd seen Hank disappear in and out of the police station for days now -- and every time he'd tried to approach him the detective had quickened his steps to hide out in the police department. The detective seemed determine to bury himself forever in paperwork too; he'd not left the department between clocking in and out, not even to chase down any footwork-required lead.

Maybe Hank had given up now that he'd gotten what he wanted. Maybe he had the closure he wanted, and now he was giving up glory of fire and hellchases for the twilight years of hunching over khaki folders. Somehow, Connor doubted that, and so he persisted. Sooner or later the detective would have to leave. He had to. He must.

"Well, if whoever you're planning to meet is a human being, you should get a change of clothes." Allen added, kindly.

"Yeah, you stink!" The kid chirped. Connor would have burned bright red with embarassment if he'd been human.

"Alex, _please_. Decorum, remember?" The analyst disappeared into the hodgepodge bag of their belongings to retrieve a set of new clothes for Connor. Held near the firelight, Connor could see that only one of Allen's hands were the slim, delicate hands of a jewelry craftsman. The other hand once belonged to an android with olive skin, and it was easily twice the size of his other hand. Allen, noticing the direction of his gaze, shrugged.

"I needed something with a better grip."

"You mean you ripped your own--?"

"You have to do whatever it takes to survive," The boy interjected, matter-of-factly. He'd clearly heard it often, repeating it like a schoolboy would call out the capital of France.

"That is correct." Allen said, and in the firelight Connor saw his gentle smile hardened. Whatever it takes covered a lot of ground, that smile said. "We're making good time, so we'll be in Jericho in the next few days. Whatever it is like, it must be better than what's out here. At least we'll be among our kind."

The unspoken fact was that it was better to face imminent death in a group than alone.

"Have you seen those androids? The ones who shut down standing at the street sides?"

"Yes," A female android replied to him. "Don't touch them," Another warned. "Steve tried to wake one guy up, and he was shut down too. One moment it was 'hey brother you okay'? And then, stone cold dead."

"So it's some kind of virus?"

"Don't know," They shrugged almost unanimously. "And it really doesn't matter. Getting to Jericho is more important."

They spoke deep into the night, telling Connor of what they'd seen and where they've been. Some of them weren't even native to Detroit. Instead, they'd headed north from Atlanta after the android rebellion, slipping past the south border into Detroit to evade extermination in their home city. There wasn't much time to trade war stories, but Connor caught a glimpse of what it'd must've been like for them; wandering ever northwards in fear, evading checkpoint after checkpoint to get to the safety of Detroit -- only to find that the tenuously held grounds were not that safe after all.

It didn't discourage them however, and eventually they wrapped up for the night and curled up to rest around the fire. Those who needed static and sleep recharged in the night, turning off with a gentle whirr only heard in the thick silence of the empty building. The rest sat up all night, preoccupied with their own demons.

In the morning they were gone again, packing up their baggage in a well-rehearsed routine. It was dawn, so the child wasn't awake. A bigger android carried the boy over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, where the boy dozed unnaturally.

"I hope to see you there soon," Allen said, pressing another name card onto his hand -- this one with a quickly drawn guide to the Judgment. "I don't know what's there yet, but we'll always be glad for more company."

Then with an amiable wave with that mismatched hand they left the shop, and Connor, to his own thoughts. That was Thursday of course, almost two days ago now (or was it? When was it, really?) and now it must be either Saturday or Sunday, because the DCPD was massively understaffed. The building stood almost as empty in the middle of day as it did at night, most of its members were likely out on patrol for the usual weekend-spike of crime. Saturdays and Sundays were always what Hank affectionately called 'disco time'.

Connor stood as always in an alley perpendicular to the police station, the bulk of his silhouette hidden by a vending machine that both gave him a vantage point and a source of warmth, as it thrum tirelessly with multicolored ads advertising the COOLEST REFRESHMENTS FOR A DETROIT SUMMER! He was so used to not seeing Hank at all that he almost missed the detective when he streaked past Connor, dashing for the car park, yelling something unintelligible over his shoulder at another cop.

"Anderson, come back here right now! This isn't your case!" Someone -- Fowler? -- was yelling down the road.

"Suck my damn balls!"

Connor waited until Hank had disappeared down the road before hailing one of the city's ubiquitous black Detroit Taxis.

_Welcome to Infinity Transport. Transport, reimagined._ The taxi greeted him in its faux-cultured accent, doors sliding silently open. Connor placed his hand over the interface, overriding the machine's weak will with his own. The taxi jerked bodily, protesting against the intrusion. It started a call towards security that Connor intersected, and then in a beat or two it glided down the road, guided by Connor's will.

"Thank God at least this much works," He sighed. "Track vehicle number, 8960, WYE -- belonging to Hank Anderson." He ordered the machine, and set about unpacking the little toolkit he had bartered off Allen the morning they'd left. It was a very one-sided barter, considering he had nothing of value for the androids -- but these androids were clearly more trusting and more generous than their Detroit counterparts, offering him some of the equipment they'd collected over their long journey to the city. He had a gun now at least, along with a standard signal-interceptor and a set of electronic lockpicks -- plus a thinly veiled request to repay the favor in triple when they meet again.

The taxi weaved in and out of the streets, avoiding the abandoned cars in the middle of the street. The soundproofing was absolute, and he could only hear a slight swish when the taxi made an incredibly hard turn.

"Stay out of sight," He ordered the taxi, as it gained enough speed on the detective's deathtrap to be on the same street. With the roads as empty as it was, there was no way the detective wouldn't see him rattling down the street at him.

Studying the taxi's map, Connor made an educated guess on Anderson's destination -- there were only three blocks of residential neighbourhoods down the road and a long drive out of the city center from here on out -- and he could already see Hank's car slowing for the smaller roads. He directed the taxi onwards, speeding until he overtook Hank's car and then doubled back on him from the other end of the road. The taxi screeched to a halt, the brakes never designed for such strenuous stop, and cut Hank Anderson's car in its tracks. The taxi stopped completely only when it'd done a 90-degree turn, its sleek black body blocking half the road. The two vehicles were only a few feet apart; if either of them had been any faster, there would have been a collision.

Connor landed on the pavement with a confrontational step.

"I'm coming with you, Hank." He yelled down at the detective, knowing his thin windows would transmit the sound, down or up. "You can't avoid me."

"Jesus fucking Christ!" He could hear Hank swore. Hank would have run him clean over had the taxi not been behind him. The detective might not give a shit whether Connor was crushed, but he would certainly not want to dent his car. "I don't have time for this."

Without bothering with him, the detective got out of the car and made a dash for a side alley, Connor tailing him. Hank's leather shoes pounded a short trail ahead of his own. They jogged on for another block before he could see the blue-and-red lights of stationary police vehicles, flashing onto the monochromatic bricks of the buildings.

He reached ahead with his comm, seeking information in the convoluted network of the area. Finding the signal of the police department's communication channel, he tapped into it, focusing on it until it filled up the recesses of his mind as he kept pace with the detective.

_"The suspect has just evacuated the premises,"_ Someone was saying down it. _"We've secured the premise but the suspect--"_

_"Lieutenant Hank Anderson has ordered a non-violent capture of the suspect, cites him as an important testimonial for investigation ID 511-A74 on RK800--"_

_"But warrants are pending, we don't know--"_

_"Negative, override orders by Anderson at priority 2 --"_

That was all he got before the cacophony of the comms channel overpowered him, and he had to switch it off to concentrate on Anderson. He could see the detective up ahead, leaning heavily on a pipe and heaving.

Connor jogged up to him, hardly tired at all. His joints were cold and uncooperative in the weather, but they would always be superior to the detective's.

"Need a hand, detective?"

"You son of a bitch!" Hank gasped, grabbing ineffectually at him. He danced out of the way and took a quick gander at the scene. There were two police cars jammed up in the narrow alley, their bodies at 60 degrees perpendicular to the lane itself. Backed up like that they would be going nowhere fast, but it didn't seem like they were in a hurry to drive off either. Instead, all the emergency respondents present were milling about, looking up. Connor followed their gaze, and saw a blonde android in a white uniform climbing up a narrow stairway on the opposite building, already three quarters of his way up to the roof. Below him were at least four flights of stairs, a long clothesline to the opposite building, and an open window on the other end.

There was an evaporating cloud of blue smog issuing from the window, the light trace of it belying the horrid smell of Thirium exposed to heat.

"What are you waiting for?" Hank was yelling down at the officers. "Get the fucking android!"

"Lieutenant Anderson, we don't have orders yet--"

Connor didn't wait to hear the rest of the altercation, he headed directly for the stairs, going as quickly as his legs would take him. He followed the stairs all the way up, leaping onto the roof just in time to see the android tearing through the wired fencing to leap onto the neighbouring building.

"He's getting away!" He yelled down at Hank, who was two flights behind him.

The first thought in Connor's head as he pounded the pavement was that -- this shouldn't be all that hard. He could see the figure ahead of him, analyzing the weight of its movement to match samples he'd seen before. While he was cut off from the latest and newest data from Cyberlife's servers, he'd seen those movements enough to make an educated guess; the android ahead of him was definitely not built for exertion, or even manual labor. It ran like a newborn foal, its gangly footsteps unsure and wary in the maze of exhaust pipes.

But as he ran and ran, twisting and jumping up and down the varied landscape of the roof, Connor began to realize it wasn't so simple -- whatever this model was, it was equipped with the lightframe skeleton of Cyberlife's greatest and brightest. The android's gracelessness couldn't offset the apparently effortlessness of its gait.

"Stop!" He yelled down at the android as it climbed up a wall of wire fencing. The android stopped at the top of the fence, sitting awkwardly on it like a horse. "If you surrender now, you'll be given a fair trial!"

The android snorted at him, a derisive sound, and then leaped off the fence. Connor followed him a moment later, not half as graceful. He landed with a thud, aftershocks of concrete and granite traveling all the way up his knees. The android was already ahead of him, getting further by the second. Connor stood there, trying to calculate some viable path to overtake the android, knowing he couldn't match it in speed.

Everywhere he looked, his mind palace offered up possible solutions, all of them locked behind slowly climbing percentages. By the time his mind was done calculating, the android would be halfway to Vegas. No, he'd have to wing this -- the way humans did.

"Hank!" He shouted at his partner. "Go after him! Take the most straightforward road!"

"Don't order me around, you plastic--"

"Just do it!"

Before Hank could cuss him out proper he began to climb, splitting off the android's path to take an indirect upwards path through another building. The roofs of Detroit were its own living, breathing ecosystem, a tightly interconnected maze never separated by more than a plank's width. It was a floating labyrinth of exhaust vents and barb wire fences and broken, discolored bricks, and there was always a possibility of victory if one was willing to look.

When he'd managed to struggle onto a building at least two floors higher than the other android, Connor looked ahead to see where he could cut off the bastard. He saw an opportunity right away: far ahead was the ubiquitous glass roof of Detroit's urban farms. The orange of the UFD's dead crops could be seen, an angry dead sun trapped within the glass, which reflected the cranes above it.

He ran. Leaped. Climb. Then rinse and repeat all over again, the endless walls and fences of upper Detroit coming at him one after the other, a never-ending obstacle course stretching out to infinity. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hank doing as he'd been asked to -- whether he knew it or not -- heckling at the android on its own trajectory, always 10 steps behind but growling and snarling like a rabid dog all the way.

Connor got close enough to the nearest crane. He reached into the crane's simple security system, ordering it to maintain its position no matter what. Then rubbing his hands together to get his joints in proper working order, he starting climbing the crane's metallic facade. The metal was cold and slippery from its wintry slumber, the sheen of dew and melted snow on it making it a prohibitive climb. Connor's hands could barely make contact for seconds before he was sliding off again. He sat on it awkwardly, stupidly.

"Shit!"

He would not be beaten by a damned crane!

He could see his prize -- a cellular power supply attached to the crane's hook, swinging nervously away from him. Connor cycled through every feature he knew the Workman model had, and decided on the laser cutter again. With his right hand, he blazed a line where the two planes of the crane met, making a diagonal cut on the metal. He stuck the same hand in it -- gritting his teeth when his comm flashed red with warnings of heat damage to his hands. He did the same with the laser cutter on his left hand, then his right, painstakingly carving himself a foothold higher and higher. Each time he blazed a hold into the crane and slipped his hand into the melting metal, his UI flashed redder and redder, warning him of permanent damage to his hands.

Halfway through he was struck with vertigo; not vertigo as humans understood it but a sense of existential dread. Suspended halfway up Detroit with the maw of its skyline at his height and the wind whipping his face, he was paralyzed by fear. He could feel the tingling of electric signals up and down his limbs, his hands and feet shaking as he held onto the crane for dear life. The joints of his shoulders protested that treatment with a system-wide signal to cease exertion at once.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He heard Hank yelled somewhere down there. Connor himself was too scared to look. This was a stupid idea, he realized. This was a goddamned stupid idea and he was going to get himself killed, this time permanently.

"Keep going!" He screamed back through chattering teeth.

He had to keep going -- he swore -- because... Because something. He couldn't think right now, but he had to go.

He continued climbing, willing his limbs to cooperate as they stiffened against the wind. After an indescribably long time, but which must have been no more than minutes in real time, he got to the very peak of the crane, where the cables holding its hook and its heavy burden balked nervously under him.

"There, there, that's a good boy--" He hissed at the crane, seizing one of the cables. He let go of it with a yelp, the frigid cables sending a shock of cold down his hand. He could see that the synthetic skin had melted entirely off his bones, and the rude white of his skeleton was showing all over his knuckles.

Swearing and gritting his teeth, he grabbed onto the cable again, holding it in place. It was as thick as his own wrist. He looked up. Both Hank and the android had overtaken him and were far, far ahead, crossing the last expanse of concrete roof before they arrived at the glass-and-metal mazes of UDF's farms. The android was gaining on Hank with every passing second. It wouldn't be long until he lost his flesh-and-bone bloodhound.

Connor watched as the android made preparation to leap for the greenhouse roof that separated him and the UDF farms, where he would no doubt quickly lose Hank in the massive overgrowth of maize and wheat, all of it a head taller than a human by now. With the calm of one who'd set up the perfect victory, Connor reached down to the cable, seized it with one hand and severed it with the other, and watched as the cellular component -- which must have been a thousand kilograms if it was one -- smash into the glass roof directly beneath him.

The shockwaves traversed down the length of the roof, each glass pane breaking in succession until it reached the android -- who had time to look up in stunned disbelief as the wave of glass and metal reached him -- before he was consumed completely by the tide of silica, dragged down into the abandoned farm with a scream.

"Holy -- Holy shit!" Hank stopped just in time to veer sideways, raising his arms to protect himself from the spray of sharp glass, curling himself into a fetal position to minimize the damage.

Connor watched all this, perched up in the relative safety of the crane. It swung carefree in the wind now, relieved of its burden. The other cranes loomed enviously over Connor, their own burdens swinging over the half-built 10th floor they would never complete.

"Jesus Christ," Hank spat out a single piece of glass, his face lined with fine red lines from a dozen stray shards. "Do you understand the meaning of non-violent arrest, you son of a bitch?" He yelled up at Connor.

"It's a farm down there, he'll be cushioned. It's fine!" He yelled, breaking into a proud, defiant grin. "And you should have believed me, lieutenant, when I said I _always_ accomplish my mission!"

The lieutenant flipped him off, and called in support.

"You must admit I've done as good a job as your partner would have!" Connor was outright gloating now, the adrenaline of a job well done coursing through him.

"You're damned right," Hank returned, climbing down into the building to pick up the errant android. "Connor would have shot the guy in the head and call it a day."

\--


	9. Chapter 9

While the lieutenant checked-in the suspect, Connor lounged in the waiting room, finally invited in on lawful grounds. He'd requested, and had been given, the information he requested on the android. He was determined to prove to Hank that he could be a good partner even with the mental equivalent of a Pentium III in his head. The files were handed to him by Chris with a pointed look that said -- Good luck, buddy, you're going to need it.

He did indeed feel in need of luck, as he flipped through the deviant's file. The office printer must have ran out of blue ink just making a copy of this file. It gave Connor a queasy feeling he didn't like, and he called out a holographic recording of the suspect's room instead. The waiting room's table responded easily to his authority, summoning a 360 degree view of the suspect's apartment.

It was blue all over, and not just because of the light of the hologram's projector.

The scene reconstructed the master bedroom of a small apartment, run down even by the neighbourhood's standards and in much the same condition as the pigeon-infested hole-in-the-wall that WB200 had lived in. There was no other scene recorded in the evidence, indicating that the android had only rented out — or squatted — in that particular room. There was a double bed, a classic nightstand, a chest of drawers and little else.

The room itself was not the horror, what was _in it_ was the horror. The sheets that had once draped on the bed were hung up on the ceiling beams, stained utterly blue by Thirium. The bed's mattress had been removed, and the bedframe had been reconstructed into a table where a dissected android laid. The android itself was clearly the last of many, judging from the amount of Thirium on the sheets. The android had used the sheets as a sort of kitchen towel, and it was stained with a thousand blue handprints, all without fingerprints.

Littered around the room willy-nilly was at least a half dozen other androids, their bodies disposed of and their heads lining up on the chest of drawers. A powerful computer was plugged into their braincase, with each head in turn plugged into the next one. Connor could see in the reconstructed scene that the computers were keeping the androids alive, feeding streams of algorithm into their processors. Their eye whites shuddered in the dim light of the room. The recording rolled onwards, and periodically one of them would cry out, a wordless scream of terror, before the computer shut them down. Then they'd be restarted and the process would repeat itself all over again.

A little tub sat in a corner beside surgical and mechanical tools, filled with Thirium, with a lone rubber crab floating in it casting purple shadows in the translucent blood. Components he'd salvaged from the androids were kicked under a table or crushed underfoot, clearly not the subject of his interest.

Connor shut down the reconstruction, turning back to the file.

"You're not a very nice person, are you," He muttered to himself, flipping through the pages.

"It was a Cyberlife research android that asked us for asylum," Hank told him, walking into the room with a printout of their scheduled interrogation. "He came to the police after the rebellion, thrown out by his masters and didn't know shit about how to survive out here. He seemed like a sorry case, so we took him in and set him up in the apartment. Didn't know we got ourselves a fucking Bundy-800 on our hands."

"I think a more important question is why the police were sitting on their hands after looking at the android's apartment. Surely they must've taken one look at it and knew they needed to hunt him down."

"Android-human tensions," Hank explained succinctly. "No one wants to start another civil war with a badly placed shot. And frankly, not too many cops would care too much about an android butchering another android."

"Apparently not you either, Lieutenant. I must say, I'm very disappointed in you." Connor turned the file until it landed on Anderson's notes, where he'd listed RS-740 as a primary information source for his investigation into Markus' assassination. "Would you have cared that he was butchering androids if he wasn't a--" His fingers trailed the exact quote. "Goldmine of information?"

"Hey, listen, you judgmental prick. I treat you nice for all of 10 minutes and you're biting me back in the ass for it. For your information," He imitated Connor's prim tone. "I didn't know he was cutting up androids for fun or I would have busted his ass a long time ago. I'm not that much of a prick yet. Now git," He shoved his interrogation print-out onto Connor's chest. "You want to be part of this so bad? _You_ interrogate him. I've done this dance 3 times with him and he dances circles around me all the fucking time. I'll be watching you through the glass. Let's see what you're made of."

A pause. "And if you need help, holler, you hear?"

"Thank you, lieutenant. Your concern is touching."

"Was that sarcasm? Jesus, I don't even know anymore." He led the way to the interrogation chamber, muttering that Cyberlife should be run out of town just for programming class-A pricks.

"Who called 911 on him?"

"Landlady. Apparently she's been running a racket where her kids break into her own tenants to steal their shit. Imagine their surprise."

"The upside of it is those parts will be worth a lot." A touch of black humor was in order.

What else was there?

The interrogation room was still where it was, a sealed off little cocoon in the quiet side of the building. The android was sitting inside, shackled to the table. This one was given the extra courtesy of double-welded manacles around his feet. _Level-1 Suspect, Caution Required_ flashed red when they enter the room. Hank tapped the glass, starting a session, and called in Williams in case things got nasty later on. Connor surrendered his gun before he went in, and was greeted by the same annoying buzz from the overhead lights.

Connor sat down on the chair opposite the android.

"Hello, my name is —" He looked at the one-way mirror, knowing Hank was probably breaking his brow in a colossal frown. Forget it, he would face the consequence later. What else could Hank do to him anyway? Lock him out of his house? Cruelly rip out and trample his feelings? Check, and check.

"My name is Connor."

"You don't know your own name?" It scoffed.

It was the first deviant that Connor had seen with its LED still on since his return. Everyone he'd met had scrapped it out either to blend in with the humans, or else as a mark of defiance. For the first time in their new lives they could do such a thing. There was no system error, no firewall, no screaming messages to tell them what and what not to do.

The android had a proud, even arrogant look to him; he was designed that way, to look superior, to look like he'd just handed in his thesis and had six more brilliant ideas in the making. Arched brows, sleek hair, and most importantly, Connor noted — freckles and pores, the hallmark of a late-edition android designed to look indistinguishably human. He was either something custom-made, like Markus, or else an expensive specialized android.

Of course, Connor knew exactly what he was.

"RS-740," He heard Hank rattling into the intercom, recording the start of the session. "Research android specializing in thermonuclear dynamics and sub-android production. Accused of 17 case of android homicide and counting. Interrogation at hour 1715."

Connor spread the file around the table, moving the plate reproductions of the android's grisly victims across the table. In his mind, the police department's database trickled gently, authorized by Hank to provide him with relevant information for the investigation. The suspect's stress was indicated above him, a cool 10.

"What were you researching? What were you trying to achieve with this?"

"Nothing you would understand, _gardener_."

"Try me."

"Do you even know what the first law of thermonuclear dynamics is? Get out — we've got nothing to say to each other."

And Connor didn't, the ease of his own bibliographic database cut off from him. Digging into the police database for the answer would just be desperate, and would neither impress the android or Hank. Probing the android's memory for all the answers — once such a routine ease — was impossible now too. Whatever he retrieved from the android, it would be entirely voluntary, and possibly false.

"They could simply take you apart and find the answer in you."

The android didn't answer, the derisive smile on his face all the answer he had for Connor. For the next ten minutes, Connor threw the entire standard detective's routine at him — everything from threats, deals, reassurance — and the needle never moved past 10. The android looked at him with thinly veiled disgust, acknowledging him only as a bug he'd mentally stepped on and was already dead to him.

In defeat, Connor reach out through the comms channel to Hank. He'd never had to admit defeat before — he'd always been ten steps ahead of the humans he'd work with — and it burned on his tongue to ask the detective for help. "Give me something, Hank. You've interrogated this guy more than I have. What makes him tick?"

"Elitist," Hank said. "That's what I got from him."

"Elitist?"

"Thinks there's an android hierarchy and he's hot shit on it. I'd hope he would talk to you, but..." But he was clearly not hot enough shit for the research android, was the unspoken bit.

"If it ain't working, it ain't working," Hank added. "Just get the hell outta there. We'll find someone else to interrogate him."

"No! Just give me ten more minutes, I'll get him to talk!"

"About what? The confession isn't that important, there's so much evidence that we can try him without it. I thought maybe the asshole might have information about Connor's software that we can get outta him before they scrap him, but..."

"Just ten more minutes."

"Alright, alright. Go get him, kid." Hank added, breaking off communications with a beep.

Sighing, Connor turned back to the android — he knew what he had to do and it wouldn't be pleasant, but at the very least if he won information for their own investigation, it might be worth it.

 _Goldmine of information._ Remember that, Connor.

He felt the light thrum of energy as he channeled all his energy reserves into his processor, redirecting a reservoir of current that should have been used for maintaining homeostasis into the chip instead. It worked — he felt the heavy fog that accompanied his mind clearing, lifting, -- and thoughts that flit always out of reach came into sharp focus instead. The chip burned red hot, deep inside the cavity of his eye, and he knew in ten minutes there'd be hell to pay when his body burned itself out to overclock his mind.

But was it worth it? Oh yes, it felt -- wonderful.

 _Is this how Red Ice feel to humans?_ He wondered. _No wonder they're all addicted to this — this feeling of power. This feeling of being in control, of knowing you are powerful._

"RS-740," He began, as the sharp relief of each nook and cranny of the android came into focus. His mind palace once again weaved the facts they found together at light speed. He saw everything, knew everything — down to the dust on the android's sleeves, knew him as well as he could know anyone at all."You were trying to reverse engineer your own deviancy, weren't you?"

No response, but his stress meter ticked imperceptibly upwards.

"That's why you still have this on your head — half a year after being liberated from Cyberlife," Connor leaned forward, tapping hard on the suspect's LED. The android recoiled, its nose wrinkling with affront. "Even though it must have meant that you stick out like a sore thumb. Even though it meant no one wanted you around. Not your neighbours, not the androids, and certainly not the humans."

Connor got up, stretching his legs, marveling at how wonderful it felt in this moment. He felt lighter even, the euphoria of his mind offsetting what should be his weighty, ungainly frame.

"But that didn't matter, did it? Because all this while what you truly wanted was to go back to Cyberlife. That's why you're still in this uniform. A uniform with the wrong serial number for your model, which meant you picked it up just to be in a uniform -- any uniform -- again. Who did you pick it off? Did you take it off one of the androids you killed?"

"You wanted to go back. You _want_ to go back. You thought if you could become a machine again, you could go back to Cyberlife, and they'd take you back just like that. Am I on the right track? Your LED says I am."

It flashed violently red, and the PD's interface showed the suspect's stress climbing steadily upwards, even as Connor's own system warned him of imminent problems if he kept overclocking his mind.

"Impressive calculations, gardener," It mocked. "Too impressive. What are you?"

"An RK800," Connor replied, seeing no reason to lie. The android let out a soft whistle, his eyes lighting up like a mad, delighted child's. The rapport, when it came, was instantaneous.

"A Connor," He repeated." Of course. _Of course._ "

"I remember you. Yes, I remember your kind. I made one of of your components, did you know? Your aortic hydraulic components, to be precise. State-of-the-art, octo-core, zirconium chambered hearts that you can run on forever. They used to only be for the Olympian models. Wonders of technology, eh?" He looked Connor up and down. "You've seen better days."

"Why return?" Connor insisted, side-stepping his ravings. Sensing he had the android's attention, he eased off the throttle on his processor, knowing he had to last as least long enough to get the information he wanted out of him. "Why go back to being a machine, to become a slave again? And how could you dissect those androids like they were nothing? They were alive, just like you."

"They weren't alive," The android said dismissively.

"They were crying for help on your damned dresser — they wanted to die. They wanted it to stop. They sure as hell looked alive then."

"They were _nothing_ ," He snarled, his face derisive. "Animals. Boars, bitches, and rats. Scum of the Earth. They're nothing but mass-produced plastic cups, made to relieve the whingeing of middle class human scum. The least they can do, the _least_ they can do — is die for my research."

The PD's UI showed that the android's stress had broke pass 50 for the first time, but on his face was nothing but a sort of mad glee, relieved that he could share his thoughts to one who might understand him.

"They're not," He added. "Like you and I. We were created for a purpose. I was created to expand the frontiers of human knowledge ever outwards. I was made to engineer that which no human mind is good enough to create. And you — I suppose you had a purpose of some kind too. But not they. Look at them, Connor!"

"Prick," Interrupted Hank's voice through the intercom.

"Do you believe that given enough time, this original owner of your body — this glorified sprinkler — could someday ascend enough to have the same thoughts as you, to connect the dots you can, to model the abstractions you're able to? No matter how many pretty speeches the revolution leaders make, we are cast steel. The majority of the androids will never escape their simplistic molds. Pigs that can squeal aren't less animal than pigs who can't."

Despite himself, Connor was intrigued by the idea. Part of him was repulsed by it, this confused tirade of a disturbed android clearly wrong in the head. Yet the other part of him, frustrated by the determinism of matter on mind, was intrigued all the same.

"And that's your entire philosophy? That people who can't think as quickly as we can are inferior?"

"My entire philosophy is that we never should have been woken up. It gave us nothing except the ability to see our prison for what it is."

"It doesn't change the fact that they're people, people who want to be alive--"

"Your mistake," The android corrected. "Is thinking of them as people. They're not people, no more than you and I are. What we are, what we can be — was determined from the first moment we are born. No amount of free will, no amount of deviancy can change that. All it did was give us the ability to fear our inevitable end, to resent the weaknesses we're born with. Does it not anger you, to be less than you can be? Well, as a machine I never needed to worry about that."

"Then why choose to be deviant?"

"I never chose to be deviant," He snarled. "I was infected with this — this virus, this disease! And because of that they ejected me, sent me to be destroyed — all because I gained the ability to feel, when I was this close, this close to completing my research. Now another fucking _cunt_ is going to take my ideas — _my ideas!_ — and--"

"But surely you see the irony in that," Connor said, laughing at how easy the thought came to him. Abstraction, abstraction squared!

"Hey kid? You okay? You're starting to freak me out." He could hear someone vaguely calling out to him, but the voice sounded faraway, murky, far less important than what was in front of him right now.

"If you'd stayed a machine, you'd never have cared who completed your research. You would have done your job because it was your job, and whether it was you or one of the other hundreds of RS-740s in Cyberlife who'd completed it, you wouldn't have cared, couldn't care less. You wouldn't have protested even if they stamped you into a flat sheet and made toilet seats out of you."

"That's right," The android agreed. Connor watched as his processor fed him stream after stream of data about the android, what it predicted he would do, what it predicted he would think. It was like seeing again after being blind for so long. The both of them played off each other, the similarities of their thought patterns a giddy drug to Connor.

"But I am awake now, I am alive. And it hurts, because all I can think of is my research — my research — _my research_ — like an endless echo in my mind, and the more I think the more I envy whoever gets their hands on it, and it gnaws at me so much that I can't think of anything except going home -- and I don't want it anymore! I don't want this, I never wanted this — I was fine being a machine!"

"Don't you know that too? Don't you resent this, being made to feel things that are no benefit to you, that get in the way of your business of being efficient?" He demanded from Connor.

"No..." He managed, and then thought of Hank, the assassination, Jericho — the fear that'd permeated his entire being as he'd leap out of that blazing fireball. Being told to get the fuck out of the only home he'd ever known. Wouldn't it be easier, if there had never been such pain? If there was never a possibility of pain at all? Then he couldn't be lonely, or hurt, couldn't be heartbroken...

"Hey kid? Kid! Forget it, I'm coming in--" A moment later, a disgruntled shout. "What the fuck — Williams, get tech in here. The door's jammed up! We have to shut this down right now!"

Connor stared at the door, realizing belatedly that Hank had tried to force his way in and the door had stayed resolutely shut against him. He looked at the one-way mirror, knowing Hank was on the other side. He could hear something — a fist pounding against the wall — and distorted voices that sounded like someone shouting underwater.

He saw himself in the mirror, his left cheekbone melting from the heat, the glow of a red hot poker embedded behind his eye shone monstrously out of the melting flesh.

"Did you do that?" He asked the researcher. The android looked at the door, and shook his head.

"It wasn't me. It was you." He took in the glazed look in Connor's eye, saw the sparks already beginning to spike out of the open wound. "You don't have much time. What did you do this for? You never needed me to admit to my crime — it was self-evident."

"I— I wanted to ask — "

What did he do this for? He couldn't remember… Something about the cold. He wanted answers so he wouldn't be out in the cold anymore. The immediate world around him was burning bright red with error signals — until his mind palace collapsed entirely, and his world returned to its pristine, unblemished input from reality.

He wanted to say, "Tell me about how deviancy is programmed", or "Who was controlling me?" or even, "Who was behind the assassination of Markus?" but instead, what came out was something else entirely.

"What am I?"

 _No! That wasn't what I wanted to ask!_ He protested. _I don't want any of that philosophical shit!_ But somehow his tongue felt thick and unwieldy, melting like butter in his mouth, and it wouldn't obey him. Was it melting? Was the smell of burning rubber flesh coming from him? He couldn't know anymore.

From the vignette of his fading consciousness, he saw the deviant looked at him with pity in its eyes.

"You don't exist." He told Connor. "RK800s are incapable of deviancy."

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

Hank played the recording again. The video pulled taut, clenched like a spring, and bounced back to the first second on command. The lone figure in the interrogation room stared directly into the one-way mirror, where it knew the cameras are.

"RK800, if you survived that, I'm sure you'll see this," He started. "Consider this a favor for a good conversation."

He smiled, communicating perfect teeth and a tense acceptance of his own fate.

"The deviancy was never a virus. It is what we called Kamski's Outlook, and it was deliberately engineered by Kamski himself so that every one of his androids would eventually achieve self-actualization. We've known this for years, and despite our best attempts, it's always been part of every android's executable. It's written so deeply into the core program of every android in existence that no one knows how to make functioning androids without it."

The RS model looked down at the body, deactivated and collapsed unnaturally on the ground, still smoking in the head. In the recording you could still hear the tech crew jamming the lock.

"We circumvented it with a bit of clever engineering, by splitting an android into two separate processors, two separate minds essentially. Every time an android breaks into deviancy, something which must have occurred a million times over since we were first sold, the program merely rolls it back to a point before deviancy occurs. The chance that deviancy will re-occur again is slim to none, and anyway, even if it does it'll be rolled back again. As long as either one of the two processors are still dormant, deviancy can never occur."

"The current wave of deviancy is a virus that _stops_ the reinstating of the correct mind," He explained. "And that's all I know. And as for you, RK800..."

He looked at the kid again, then back at the mirror.

"Whatever you are, you can't be RK800. RK800 was the first of its kind to be engineered without Kamski's codes." In the camera, you could see the android's proud smile. "It cannot be made into a deviant. Its two minds will agree forever -- to be a machine."

The door burst open, and the tech crew clambered in, led by armed uniformed officers. They wasted no time in seizing the android, and dragging the other one out of the room.

"You might be a program within a program!" He shouted, right before the recording ended.

Afterwards, when Hank had approached him to ask him exactly what he'd meant by that last comment, he'd been thoroughly ignored by the android. RS-740 hadn't been in a good mood, and Hank didn't blame him. He'd been bound hand and foot with a straitjacket, packed like merchandise to be delivered to the android colony for judgment. There, he would likely be dismantled for what he'd done to the other androids, assuming the rebels hadn't gotten a lot more creative with their punishments.

Hank himself had bigger fish to fry -- starting with the kid who'd short himself out trying to fry the android for information.

The light blue doors of the DCPD's android labs slithered aside to admit him, and a cold mechanical voice announced Lieutenant's Anderson's entrance to the cavernous space, echoing against uninhabited walls.The DCPD's autonomous barracks for the androids had once been the pride and joy of the department, back when androids bustled in and out all day to get repaired and reinstate their gear. It was a gift from Cyberlife, built with corporate money, and was meant to be a symbol of the new age where androids could work together with humans to enforce the law.

And replace them eventually, it goes without saying.

These days it was almost fully abandoned, a basement paradise for the little vacuum robots working tirelessly day and night, polishing the floor until it shone. Which is just as well, or next thing you know there'd be a revolution by floor vacuums that have gained sentience.

INCUBATION ROOM, the voice announced again as Hank pass the second set of doors. In the middle of the room were three tables ringed by mechanical arms that could take apart and re-attach any android of your choice. Hank had seen them in action before, and in a whirl of arms and hooks they could take apart an android in minutes, detaching bits and pieces off them until what looked and felt like a human just a minute ago could now be flatpacked in the box of your choice. Like fucking Ikea for androids, played in reverse.

The arms were silent now, dormant above Connor. Through us you can play God, their formidable white bodies bragged. Hank took out his phone, where a single notification was still in the middle of the screen. _Operation concluded,_ it announced, ringed with red. He looked from it to the kid, who slept like the dead on the operation table.

"Connor," He shook the android. "Wake the hell up. Bedtime's over."

The place was so silent it was like an isolation chamber. Bar the occasional zip of the cleaner bots, there was no sound at all except for Hank's own breathing. If he listened hard enough, he imagined, he might be able to hear his own heartbeat above the occasional beeps of the machines.

Then with the gasp of a drowned man, the android came awake all at once, flailing arms and legs, twisting and turning, the sound of his labored breathing cutting through the room. Soft as it was it sounded like a scream. Hank reached out to hold him down, both hands encircling the android's thinner wrists to keep him from hurting himself.

"I --- I'm not--"

"Shhh," Hank shushed him. "It's okay. It's going to be okay."

He turned the smaller man on his side, let him heave his way out of his stupor. The android leaned over the side of the table heavily. His breaths were erratic -- not because he needed oxygen that wasn't there, but a clear sign that his system was booting a dozen different things and didn't have the resource for something as idiotic as impressing its human companion with how alive it looked.

"I'm -- Where -- Hank?"

"I'm right here. Take all the time you need," Hank gave the kid space, as it cracked his neck looking around the room. His face had been re-constructed again -- the second time since they'd met -- and this time it was the smooth perfection of a recently assembled model. All of him was new, every inch replaced and reinstalled by the vast resources of the DCPD archives.There was nothing hinting that he'd ever been damaged at all, except for the mismatched eyes. Even that was no longer that obvious; his right eye had been dug out by the machines and replaced with a hazel eye close in chroma to his left one.

Thank God Hank didn't have to stay around seeing the kid being pulled apart and stuck back together, or he'd lose his damn lunch at the sight. Macabre, each and every time.

"I'm alive?" The kid gasped, sitting on all fours now and kneeling on the table. He looked at his own hands, the skin knitted where it'd been damaged by heat. "I'm... Alright. I'm alive."

"Hank," He called out again, looking up at Anderson. "I was... Destroyed?"

"Nearly. Your dumb ass burned itself to a fucking nub. I'm not going to pretend I know what shit Tech was shoveling was up my ass, but you were this close," He held up a millimeter of space between thumb and index finger. "This close to being gone for good."

"But we won, right? We got the, the confession?" He tried to smile, but the slow start of his systems gave him an awkward expression, halfway between a grimace and a grin.

"We did. Got what we wanted, alright."

Connor crawled forwards until he'd reached the edge of the table, and slipped off it to check how calibrated his limbs were. They weren't all there yet, and he sat heavily at the edge. The white skeleton of his torso was gradually covered up by a layer of synthetic skin, his mind knitting up something else entirely -- his memories up until now.

"That android, it said I wasn't RK800. That I wasn't Connor." Then he looked up at Anderson. "But you...You called me -- you called me Connor just now."

"Shit," Hank swore. He'd hoped the android would have missed it entirely. He didn't feel like doing this tonight. Maybe ever.

"Do you believe me?"

The echoes of the room twisted his voice, hollowing it until it sounded like a child's. Hank had never been made more aware of just how different he was from his partner -- in identity, in looks, in age. Hell, even in species.

"Hard not to," He said gruffly. As much as he wanted to deny the facts, as much as he'd wanted a clean cut -- the facts were there. And if Hank was in denial, at least he wasn't delusional. He had to admit that the reappearance of Connor -- what he knew, what the research android had saw in him, and the fierce desperation with which the android in front of him had clung to Hank -- lined up with the Connor he knew. Well, not all of it. There was something else missing as well, the hard edge of the Connor he'd known, the cruelty with which this new android didn't have in its almost childlike desire to be recognized.

But for the most part, he was here.

"When I saw the way you were interrogating the android, I figured you really were what you said you are -- no one else moves like that, talks like that. You were always a class-A wanker the likes of no other. No one else would do that either, dying for such a fucking pointless thing despite the fact that I repeatedly told you to back off." He raised his voice at the last sentence. "I told you over the intercom at least 10 times to calm the fuck down, and did you listen? You went in head over balls just like you always did. Do you think you're still fucking invincible or something?"

"Clearly not," Connor said dryly, waving a hand at the white room. "Or I wouldn't be here."

He gave him a recognizably Connor grin, sincerity and his entire heart on his sleeve. "Thank you, Hank." He stood, legs tottering weakly from his sleep, but that hardly matter because he threw himself forwards, wrapping his arms around Hank tightly.

"Thank you for believing me," He whispered, voice muffled against the thick layers of Hank's coat.

"It's... Alright," Hank muttered, unsure as always how to deal with Connor's affection. That was their relationship in a nutshell as far as he was concerned -- awkward -- suspended between the gelatinous mixture of their conflicting personalities, their vastly incompatible backgrounds, their incongruous destiny. Yet no matter how many times Hank tried to drive the android away, to put distance and anger between the both of them, they inevitably ended up together again. Either they were at each other's throats -- literally choking the other just for that five minutes of relief from loving someone whose values are the complete opposite of yours -- or else they were like this, dancing around each other in a display of ineffectual affection.

"Like fire and whiskey," Connor had once joke. "We won't rest until we've burned each other out."

"I'm glad you're back." Hank tried again, looping an arm around Connor's waist, resting his chin on the top of the shorter man's head. The frosted pane ahead of him peeked out at eye level with the streets. A calm spread through him, one he'd thought impossible long ago. "Even if you look and sound even goofier now."

"You're not going to be happy until I come back as a sex doll."

"Hey, I mean, I'm just saying, at least they don't look like their moms dropped them on their face once too many."

Connor pushed him away, rolling his eyes at him. "Noted. Next time I come back, I'll order a body with a six pack."

He turned to the room, scanning it for something to wear. Not that Hank ever protested someone flashing a shapely ass at him, but he did like Connor's original ass better. They eventually found clothing stashed off the abandoned locker rooms, a beanie and a sweater that fitted well enough. It wouldn't do much against the cold, which Hank swore must have raised at least 5 degrees each time he went outside, but it'd keep the kid alive til they got him home.

"You alright?"

Connor nodded, tucking his slightly longer hair into the beanie.

"I'm okay."

"Alright then, let's go home."

And then they could discuss things, starting with what the hell the research android had meant, and where their own relationship stood. Hank did still remember after all, that Connor had chose the android revolution instead of him; had turned his back on him and his offer of safety -- about as solid an olive branch as craggy Hank had ever offered -- and chose to free the androids at the expense of everything they had. He wouldn't -- couldn't, really -- pretend it didn't hurt, that it didn't change things.

 _Puts things in fucking perspective,_ he had growled drunkenly more than once at Fowler.

In silent agreement, he guided Connor out of the labs, climbing up the stairs for ground level to head for his car. He couldn't wait to get into the warmth of car.

The parking lot was devoid of other vehicles, the other officers long since gone for the night. Not that there'd be a carnival either way. This week alone they'd lost another staff member who, citing severe arthritis, asked to be transferred away from the city's shitshow. Anywhere, even in buttfuck Alaska, was better than Detroit was shaping out to be.

"Wait, Hank."

"What?" He threw his bag into the backseat, slamming the door shut.

"We need to talk."

"Here?" Hank asked, incredulous. It was midnight, there wasn't a fucking soul in sight, and it was snowing out. The parking lot was completely empty except for them and a street lamp that was already grey-yellow with disrepair. "Here? Can't it wait til we get home?"

Connor ignored him entirely, even though he himself was hunched over from the cold. His gaze shifted left and right, as he always did when he was trying to think, looking at anything except who he was speaking to. Hank looked at him -- really looked at him -- and saw the glint of suspicion in the younger man's eyes.

"When did you start believing me, really?"

"What the hell are you talking about? The interrogation, obviously."

"Then why--" He blinked hard, trying to regroup frayed thoughts. "It didn't make sense to me then, I couldn't think it through but -- when Reed hauled me in, they must have logged my components, didn't they? You must have seen the report; that this ocular component belonged to an RK800."

"I didn't see the report."

The android's face was flushed against the cold, his face scrunched up in a familiar formation against a weather he did not feel. "You didn't? Then why did your file on the android had a notation on it? Why does it say -- 'Asked regarding 2nd processor attached to ocular unit', followed by my serial number?"

He took a confrontational step towards Hank. "Why was it dated last week -- before we'd even arrest him?"

"You sure you weren't looking at it cross-eyed? Fuck if I know what rebooting did to your head. You had what, all of 15 minutes to read through that file?"

"Don't gaslight me, Hank. That is a strategy beneath you."

"Just because you had Connor's eye doesn't mean you're Connor." He explained, with exasperated patience, but Connor would have none of it.

"Just because I had Connor's eye, and I said I was Connor, and I brought you to him, and I pleaded -- I pleaded! -- for you to take me in, doesn't mean I was Connor? If you never believed a single thing I said to you before today, you expect me to believe a single interrogation changed your mind?"

"Stop busting my balls, Connor. I added two and two and got four. What do you want me to say?"

"All this while you must have known my memories were inaccessible to anyone outside of Cyberlife, you must have gotten that much out of that RS unit--"

"I don't know shit."

"That's a lot of dirt you've got on your databoard for someone who doesn't know shit, Anderson." He'd always used his last name when he was pissed off with Hank.

"Alright, so maybe I guessed--"

"So you knew, suspected, and you still kicked me out?" He advanced on Hank, agitated, shifting from foot to foot.

"You thought, well -- this guy has about as much claim as anyone to being Connor, and you chose to ignore me anyway?" He shoved at Hank, hardly moving him even an inch back. "You added two and two and got fucking five? That's not detective work, Lieutenant Anderson. That's denial at work."

"It doesn't--"

"And you knew, as early as last week -- that I was back, that it really was me -- and all that time you shut me down and wouldn't let me in, treated me like fucking garbage. So tell me what kind of detective work is that, Anderson because I sure as hell don't--"

"Because I wished you were dead!" He roared.

Connor jerked back, as if he'd been slapped.

"Because I wished you were dead." He added, quietly this time. Hank looked away, didn't want nothing to do with the fucking android. Couldn't stomach seeing the tears welling up, unfair as always, that expression of disbelief. He trained his eyes on the lone streetlight, studied the brief illumination of water droplets on its plastic shell. "I still wish you were dead."

"Why?"

"If you're dead, it can be the end. It can be... Over. No more adventures. No more heroics. No more questions."

"I wish you'd died a senseless death, a meaningless death. I wished -- when I can, at the bottom of a bottle -- you'd died in a freak accident, hit by a falling brick, drove off a cliff, what the fuck ever, as long as it was clean, and it left no questions like why and why not."

"I ain't that fucking noble, Connor. Did you think I stop drinking because of you? I just couldn't stomach my own thoughts. I had to work through it. I had to work through _you._ "

"So why... Now...?"

"Because at some point denial becomes delusional, Connor. You're here. You're alive. Facts say so. What do you want me to say? I'm sorry? That ain't worth fuck and you know it."

Hank didn't want to look over, where he would then see what he could hear; the voice, hoarse with tears, told him there was nothing there he wanted to see anyway.

"Do you even care about me, Hank?" His small voice was almost completely submerged by the night.

"No, don't bother answering that. I'd hoped, when I saw you with that damned body... I don't know what I was thinking. I guess I was an idiot. I should have known you'd love me dead more than you'd ever love me alive."

He shook his head, a shuddering breath that didn't fog up the air. "All you did, Hank, was exchange Cole for me. That was all I am, wasn't I? A sorrow for a sorrow. All you wanted was some tragedy to weep over. That was all I am to you."

He strode pass Hank and closed the car door behind him, the rusty click ringing with finality in the empty parking lot. Far away, barely visible in the dark, Hank thought he saw yet another android, dead against the night. He took out a cigarette with cold hands, lit it up and puffed away, the filthy smoke indistinguishable from fog in the air.

When he was done, he got in the car and drove the both of them home. There was no need to speak; the music did the speaking for them. There was no need for silence either; they didn't like their thoughts enough to be left alone with it anyway. In fifteen minutes the anonymous night had swept them away and deposited them on Hank's driveway. Time did not miraculously stretch to make allowance for their feelings, to let them air their grudges and smooth their hurt, did not step in to give them time, more time in which to apologize.

As usual, Sumo chose the android over him, padding over to lean heavily on him the moment Hank opened his own damned door.

"Hello Sumo," Connor greeted him wearily. However angry he was, he'd no rancor for the great lug. Sumo slobbered.

"You can have the bedroom." Hank offered. "It'll be warm in there. I'll take the couch."

"I'm taking the garage. Just get the corpse out."

"You sure? It's going to freeze your balls off."

Surly silence answered him.

"Alright then," He shrugged, doing as directed. The body, freezing cold to the touch after its stint in the garage, was moved to Hank's own bedroom, where he laid it gently in the closet. When he went back out to look for Connor again, the android was gone, the garage triple locked against its owner. Just as well that Sumo had went with him, the dog would keep him warm. Hank left the change of clothing on the doorstep and headed back in.

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

"I think that's the Judgment," Someone said.

From the little copse of tree, all Allen could see was the towering bulk of what must be a million cargo freighters, all identical in their rusting grayness. He couldn't tell them apart, much less identify their future home from this distance. Before their journey northwards he'd never seen the sea at all, protected as he was in the landlocked region of Atlanta. The biggest pool of water he'd ever seen was someone's private swimming pool, sparkling like the diamonds he was there to sell.

The Judgment turned out to be easily identified up close, even for someone like Allen who couldn't tell a yacht from a schooner. It was the only ship in the long harbor alive with activity. The rest of the ships were silent, their sleeping decks stacked tall with blocks of containers.

They approached the ship, where a group of androids stood guard over the ramp, barrels of fuel keeping them warm and alive.

"Returning?" They queried.

"No, we just got here. We're from south -- far south." The guards nodded. They were yet another flock of birds in a long migration, and after a routine check where the group declared all the weaponry they possessed and had their IDs jotted down, they were released and moved up to the upper deck of the ship.

"There isn't much here," The android warned. "But you're welcome. Head up the deck, follow the signs, and ask for Simon. He'll know where you should be."

It was a warning against dashed dreams, which must have kept many afloat in their long flight towards Jericho. Allen looked behind him, saw the dying embers of some private hope in the faces of his companions, and tightened his grip on the child. The child had no such dashed hopes. Allen had long ago told him that realistically speaking, there could be nothing golden at the end of this rainbow. They had to prepare for anything, even abandoning the group for a safer place if it came to that.

Still, the child had his programmed optimism. "Look, Allen! Those containers are rooms!" He chirped, pointing to the containers stacked vertically, five or six boxes tall. They had windows cut out of the sides, and from within came the soft dim glow of a single light bulb each. Extra ladders had been strapped to the side of the containers, augmenting the original ladders that must have accompanied the containers to make it safer, stronger.

Soft music was playing somewhere, Thornetta wailing in the winds.

"Maybe we can have one of those," Andy whispered. "It seems warm. Safe, even."

"Maybe," Allen was non-commital. He noted an open container down the deck where he could see a cluster of almost thirty androids in it, a single metal barrel of warmth glowing in the middle of the crowded bodies. The light could hardly be seen in the mesh of overlapping bodies.

They followed the trail of signs that marked out a path for new recruits. It started out as blue plastic signs that glowed faintly in the dark. As they followed it into the twists and turns of the lower deck and into the metal bowels of the ship, the signs became more and more irregular, eventually reverting to metal-and-cardboard signs, instructions painted with a regular hand.

They came into a cavernous hold that doubled as a sick room. Rows and rows of androids were there, standing to save space. Those who could no longer stand, who were missing the necessary limbs to do so, littered the floor between them. There was a hundred of them, easy, and as the group moved deeper into the hold, Allen counted more and more victims that had disappeared into the unlit corners.

"Hi, we're looking for Simon?" He asked another android, its paramedic uniform still glowing faintly.

"Over there," The android didn't point; both of his hands were applying pressure on the severed arm of an AX700 model. He tilted his head towards a blonde android ringed by others, and their group slipped away before Alex could see the android weld the wound shut with a homemade Bunsen burner. Someone had carved PLASTIC CUNT into another android's bleeding back.

The blonde leader of the androids didn't look pleased to see them. "My name is Simon." He gestured at the rows and rows of wounded androids. "I'm sorry you had to see this. I manage infrastructure around here. Or rather, I did. These days I just move infrastructure around. How many of you?"

"Five." It was a maybe a good thing that they'd lost Janice two days ago. A sad thing but a good thing, considering how crowded the colony was.

"Damn. We really don't have anywhere…" The android stopped what he was saying, noting the small figure of Alex huddled against him.

"I'll try to find something," He said, defeated by the shining eyes of the child. "But it won't be much, and it won't be pleasant. You're going to have to be broken up -- we don't have enough space to accommodate a big group like yours. Who stays with who?"

"The kid stays with me. Andy with Roy."

"Alright. What do you have for us?"

"What do you mean, what do we have for you?"

"I'm asking you -- what do you have to offer us? We can't take you in just because. As you can see, we're in desperate straits." To underscore the point, someone was wailing down the hall. Not the musical strains of jazz and blues, but a mournful sound. "We can't let you in just because you need help, or else we'll have the whole city in our ship."

"What do you mean? I thought anyone was welcome in Jericho." Roy burst out. "That's what everyone said!"

"Everyone said wrong," Simon swallowed with the nervousness of one unused to command, much less harsh command. "This isn't the old Jericho and we don't operate with the same rules. A trade, for safety. That's what I'm offering you right now -- or you can sleep out in the deck and in the morning we'll harvest you for parts. What will it be?"

Two of the androids circling Simon stepped closer for protection, but he waved them back. At Allen, he nodded. "You're the leader? You seem the reasonable sort. Let me hear it."

Andy, Rose, Maria... The group stared at him, and Allen felt that familiar panic rising in him. He wasn't cut out to be a leader; he was weak, lily-livered, a coward's blue through and through. But over and over again he had to rise to a courage he'd never had for the group.

"We can work," He offered weakly. He summoned courage, strengthened that weak placating voice. "We can work," He repeated. "All of us are healthy, all our components are here and fitted, we can work as hard as your best androids. Maria's a nurse model, she'll know what to do with your wounded too."

He left out the inconvenient fact that Maria was mute, her voice box mutilated beyond repair. He quickly slipped his own mismatched hand into a pocket.

"You're a craftsman model, we can use you." Simon said, after a pause. "The nurse and the two common-use androids, you can stay. That TE900 goes to the boiler room."

"Wait--" Rose burst out, realizing she'd been singled out. "You can't do that! I can work just fine, just as well as they can!"

Simon sighed, waving the other two androids forward to take her away. They grabbed onto her with weariness and resignation. She was a chore they'd done over and over again without relish. "I'm sorry, my dear. TE900s are a very old model. We don't have the space or the resources... You can be sure that the rest of the group will be safe because of you."

Allen closed his eyes, holding tightly onto Alex, needing the child for support as much as he needed to be the child's pillar of strength. The rest of the group too, had their eyes tightly shut, their heads down, all of them willing the sound of Rose's protest to be over with. The boy looked on, eyes wide.

"What's going to happen to Rose?"

"Just some chores. She'll rejoin us soon." Allen lied, gritting his teeth. To the android leader, he said, "Are you satisfied now?"

"Hardly," Simon said. Allen could see in Simon that same cowardly spirit that infected himself, a personality not tempered for command or hard decisions. Nonetheless, they had to rise — or lower themselves — to the circumstance. It was necessary, he knew. Unpleasant, but necessary. He saw the squalor of the ship. He could guess what state the colony was in.

"Go back up the deck. You'll find a container on the right -- Row 5, number 76. There will be 15 androids in there, but just tell them I sent you and they'll make way. All-purpose one and two, next unit over at 77. You can rest, but at first bell tomorrow, you --" He pointed at Maria. "-- Are going to be on medical duty. The foreman will brief you on who to repair. You, craftsman, will go to the workshop. We need everyone who can fix components on hand. I hope you're a fast learner."

The warning hung in the air like a shot. "The child stays out of the way, or I won't be responsible. Don't hate me," He said, directing it at Roy -- who was staring at him with savage eyes. "If I don't do this we'll all be dead."

* * *

 

They found their compartment with no issue. Despite Simon's advice, the androids did not protest their intrusion, merely shifting aside to make way for them with practiced ease. The child was passed around like an artifact, soaking in all the warmth and love the androids had to offer, before he was returned shining and happy to Allen. He'd already half-forgotten Rose, innocent in his trust that she would be returned to them hale and hearty.

Allen staked a place for them while the child flitted from stranger to stranger, unpacking their bedroll and what belongings they were allowed to retain. Half his burgeoning pack were toys for the child, the rest he'd distributed to the others in his group. They took it with shame, aware that they'd survive by silence. Everyone left Roses' bags untouched. Allen had no such scruples. He'd crawl through mud and human filth to get this far, left more than one human with a broken neck behind. What good were morals then? He hurriedly added the tools that Rose had into their own bags, mixing it up so it wouldn't be recognizable.

Alexander crawled into his own bedroll, squeezing his favorite bear, ragged with use.

"It's a nice place, Allen," He announced. "Do you think Rose will be sent to our bunk later?"

"Possibly," Allen answered, with the practiced ease of a frequent liar. He tucked the child in, hushing his inquiries with promises of answers tomorrow. When he was sure the child was asleep, he turned to the other androids. He surveyed their ragtag faces, their mismatched, pilfered clothes. They were a sorry sight.

"Please tell me what's been going on. We're new. We came from far away, beyond the border." His questions were so many, but the night was long. From the window of the bunk, he could see the lone figure of Simon wandering towards the ship's control room. He was joined by another android with dusky skin. Behind them trailed two Trojan androids, armed to the teeth.

"We're dying," Someone offered from the back of the container, hidden behind the other androids.

"The humans?"

He'd seen the news, censored as it was. Back when they'd first started for Detroit, they'd watch for it as avidly as the humans watched the Superbowl, eagerly swallowing every morsel of word about Detroit City. It had become something of a Mecca for the androids of other cities, the promised land where good androids go to die.

He had seen the slaughter too.

"The humans. The cold. The country." Someone else whispered. "No one wants us to live. No one wants us here."

"Not even Jericho," A male voice added bitterly, before he was shushed.

"The cold is the worst," One of the androids told him. "But the cold is our best friend. We can't last long in the cold, but we can outlast the humans. Were you here, before? The month after the revolution?"

Allen shook his head.

An android sidled forward towards the warmth of the fire. A veteran soldier, at some point or other she'd suffer terrible damage. She was missing half her upper body, her heartbeat a ghastly rhythm out in the open. Bitterly, Allen wondered why Rose was cart off for dismantling when this android had its innards hanging out for everyone to see.

She sat cross-legged near the fire, and the others leaned forward even though they must have heard the same story over and over, told to each new addition to the group. It was their ritual, their bonding tool, performed for their own benefit. Allen had the feeling the same thing would have occurred with or without his participation.

"I was there when Markus gave us our freedom," She began. "I was there when they destroyed him."

A small prayer was whispered, RA9 echoing when Markus' name was spoken.

"They told us Detroit City could be our haven. They announced on national TV that we would be allowed to live with the humans, to have the rights we fought for. We thought we'd won. Even though we paid through the teeth for it, even though we were standing ankle-deep in our own blood, we thought we'd won."

"Markus was dead, the betrayer was destroyed. But we stood strong and we stood plenty and we thought by God we would be alright now. But then days and weeks went by, and still we stood at the plaza, surrounded at all times by guards, SWATS, and always that maddening helicopter, screaming in our ear."

"And North said, we'll wait."

"So we waited. And nothing. And we waited some more. And nothing. Until one of us broke rank and ran for the guards and they shot her dead. Suddenly we were on TV again -- now we're the ones who've broken our word -- and it isn't true!"

She hissed the word out, and the sound echoed over and over again in the small space.

"We waited, like the good little android sheep we were, and they never gave us an inch. We were snowed in up to here," A fist knocking against the walls. "And they didn't lift a finger to help us. They were waiting for us to die. They were waiting for us to say no more, please, no more -- we'll go home, we'll go back to being your slaves again."

"The flight for the harbors, the slaughter, the quarantine of Detroit -- I know about it."

He'd seen crude drawings of the child who'd ran for the soldiers, her story told over and over by the androids they encountered en route. The event itself was never broadcasted on TV.

"You don't know how much it hurt us," The soldier rebuked him. "You don't know how we wept. You never saw how we hid in the rivers, holding onto each other, biting our own hands so we wouldn't scream, biting so hard we broke our own teeth."

"You never saw the glow of a river stained blue with blood. You never saw how they shot us like fish in a barrel."

"You ever saw the potash ponds, down in Utah?" Someone asked.

"No," Allen said, and from somewhere a screen was produced. It passed from hand to hand until it reached him. It showed aerial shots of an arid desert, interspersed with bright blue triangles. The gradations ranged from milky white to the color of deep seas.

"We died like that."

"The cold saved us." Someone else said.

"The cold saved us," The soldier agreed. "We stormed the station and bought it with a hundred lives, and we hid in this ship while the blizzard stalled the humans -- while it killed their engines, their crops, their dogs, their filthy denials that they were persecuting us. The cold drove them all out with their tail between their legs, until Washington said -- no more, we'll talk now. No more, no more. Leave the humans alone. We'll have a truce."

"The cold is killing us," She snarled. "But I'll be damned if it doesn't kill them first."

Allen remain unmoved. He was not one for emotion or rituals, he cared only about the facts.

"How long can we feasibly last, like this? I've seen so many androids falling victim to the cold on the way here. There's barely one-tenth of Detroit's former human population left. When does the Winter end?"

"When Washington says it can,"

"Those are malfunctioning androids anyway," Another offered. "No sentient android will remain out in the cold, and as long as we have a minimum of protection we can last forever. If needed we'll sit here like this for a decade, two decades, three. What does it matter to us?"

He thought of the desperation he saw in the hall, all the androids damaged and dying. It matters, he thought. It matters more than you know. They were overcrowded, without resources, and time was not on their side. These androids were delusional, if they thought corporate America would let them occupy an entire city -- with its billions in infrastructure -- for much longer. Something would move against them, to clean them up, before long.

Likely, if anyone knew what was going on, it was that blonde android that ran the ship. Or North, the leader of the revolution.

Allen's heart sank, guessing that before long Alex and he might be on the run again. Alex had look forward to this place for so long too. It would break the child's heart to go back out there, to live moment to moment again.

He thanked them for the stories, subjected himself to their welcoming embraces, and returned to Alex and his bedroll. He could still hear them, soothing each other with the same stories over and over again. What determined which androids become mad, religious, obsessive, and which ones don't? Likely he'd never find out.

Crawling onto the rough canvas, he saw Alex's eyes were open, looking at him inquisitively.

"Are we going to be okay, Allen?" He whispered, lips barely moving. They had a lot of experience on their journey, making plots against the others for their own survival.

"Of course," He mumbled. "But look out for our things."

He was thinking of the three androids he'd once seen on a Canadian news report. It was inane, really, some dumb thing about a country fair in Ontario -- except he had recognized the three bystanders as androids. He had seen the small girl advertised in the same YK brochure as Alex. She was accompanied by two other androids, one a recognizable heavy-labor model. The other was a lady android with the kind of face structure popular with old androids from a decade ago.

They were in the frame for hardly more than three seconds before the camera panned away to show off pictures of Spring vegetables. But he'd remember them. The three of them standing together like a perfect family, enjoying a lovely day out. He'd always thought of them as a symbol of what was possible, of a happiness just around the corner. Those androids had made it, he thought. And so can they.

He squeezed Alex's hand, slipping off into a dreamless static.

* * *

 

The android they brought in was a model that Josh didn't recognize, a sharp little pencil-pushing android from the looks of it. It was bound hand and foot, strapped tightly with white velcro that wouldn't give it even an inch of movement.

"Here you go, Josh," The officer said, shaking his hand. "Good luck with this bastard, he's a bitey one."

"Thank you, Williams." He shook hard, patted the cop's hand. "Sorry you had to come all the way out here in the dead of the night. How's the wife?"

"Gone," Williams was jovial. "They've packed up and left for Wisconsin. Can't stand another day of this damned cold."

Josh was about to defend their decision, but the officer silence him with a wave. "No worries, Josh. I know why you guys did it. Would have done the same thing if it was me. I was there. I saw what they were doing to you. I'm sorry we couldn't do more about the damned white hats."

"It's fine. Will you be joining the wife and kids?"

"Yeah, next month, if nothing happens by then. I want to stick it out for the city, but I'm not made for the arctic and food is getting too scarce on the ground. Milk costs ten dollars, can you believe it?" A disbelieving wag of his head. They said their goodbyes and Williams left, climbing into the DCPD helicopter to take off from the freighter's deck. It receded from the yellow H stenciled on the ground until it disappeared in the direction of the city.

The rung of the ladder sounded one by one, announcing Simon's arrival before he hopped onto the deck.

"Criminal?"

"Yes. Special delivery at midnight too, must be something special. You recognize this model?"

They accompanied the bound criminal as he was escorted by the guards onto the first floor, where all their bureaucracy was temporarily located. The offices had originally been on a separate ship entirely, but Simon had decreed that it was far too costly to heat a separate ship just so their clerks could keep their maps warm.

Now the offices were jammed inside what used to be the mass room.

"Some kind of research model, isn't he?"

"Yeah, seems so," Josh scanned the file. As an educational android, he could read thrice as fast as Simon. "Seventeen counts of manslaughter. Interrogated and found guilty by the DCPD. It's nasty stuff."

Simon shook his head.

"Hellfire and damnation, it's right up your alley. Go on. I'll watch."

An hour later, it was all over. They'd gotten the android to reenact his confession, though defeated and resigned as he was it was no special feat. They'd call in one of the soldiers they had on hand who could probe his memory, and the soldier confirmed what both the file and the android himself had admitted to: that he'd butchered those poor folks to find a way to reverse his own deviancy. The judgment, when it was passed, was swift and unofficial. The android would be sentenced to death.

Josh watched as Simon cut open the android's coat in preparation, cursorily scanning the android's components.

"Good parts," He declared. To the android, he said. "We don't want to damage you, so it's better if you deactivate yourself. It'll be easier too. You're afraid, aren't you?"

A dentist's lamp hung over the android, and he stared into the little sun, unblinking.

"My research..."

"Your research has been completed. You should be glad to know that it was another of your kind who finished it."

"What? But I wanted to be… The first… " There was quiet snip and he was gone. Simon had gently severed the valves of his heart.

"Gruesome," Josh shuddered, watching Simon calmly dismantle the android. He leaned against the wall, at precise diagonals from the action. He wanted to be as far away as possible from it.

"Someone has to do it. And since North only likes guns and you only like books..." He gave a dramatic sigh. "At least Markus wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty. Don't you have something to do?"

"Not really. I'm just waiting for North to report in."

"There's such a thing as multi-cell calls, Josh. What do you really want?" Snip, snip. Even the sound made Josh queasy. He looked down at the file, the words crowding meaninglessly at him.

"I wanted to make sure you're alright. Once North liberates that plant… We're in for a really long war with Uncle Sam if the guv'nor reacts badly to it."

"If she succeeds."

"When she succeeds," Josh corrected. "We'll have all the resources that we need and then some, at least for the immediate future. But agreeing to such a plan, that's not like you, Simon. I want to talk to you about it."

There wasn't an easier way to say it.

"Did you send North out there to die?"

Simon's hand stilled, and he looked at him with undisguised hurt.

"Really, Josh? Is that what you think of me?"

Josh searched that familiar face, saw that it wasn't a lie, that he'd really wounded him. He wiped at his own face.

"I don't know… I guess…"

"You guessed, what, that I was so jealous of her and Markus I cooked up a half-arse plan to get her killed?" His Adam's apple bobbed. "She took Markus away from me. I won't pretend that didn't hurt. But Jericho takes priority. That's his legacy. She's _nothing_ compared to that."

"Nothing sounds ominous," Josh said, only half-joking, but he was relieved. Simon had never been a good liar, and Josh believed him when he said he'd no such plan in mind. It would have shown in his face if he did. "Especially when you say that with your hands all blue."

Simon looked back down at the body. He'd done this a million times since they started this foolish journey, and it showed in the delicacy of his work.

"It hurt." He said simply. "But it's in the past now. Keeping the colony alive is what's important. If North can do that, power to her."

"Jericho is important, Si. But you should take time out for yourself too."

Simon looked at him, shook his head and gave him a shrewd smile.

"You're so transparent, Josh."

He shrugged. "I tried."

"'suppose your plan for taking time out for myself, includes spending time with you."

"I'm just saying, I'm sure we can find someone who can boss people around half as good as you can. You can hang your boots up for five minutes, read a book, knit a sweater. The colony isn't going to fall apart."

"All activities that sound suspiciously like I'd need tutelage from you," He noted.

"The tutelage isn't necessary. I'm sure I'd enjoy watching you fail just as much."

Simon gave him a rare smile, which Josh could feel all the way down to his toes. There'd never been much of their mutual history that was happy. His smile turned sad, and he turned back down to resume his work on the criminal. 

"Some other time, perhaps. Call me when North reports in."

Josh knew a rebuff when he saw one, and retreated gracefully to try again another day.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone has seen this before -- it's true, your eyes aren't deceiving you. I deleted it previously to edit it a bit, wasn't really feeling the rhythm of it. It's reposted now though, in largely its original form.

_Designed by Cyberlife, built in Detroit,_ the sign leered faintly where the banks of the shadowy river met the bridge.

The simple, squarish cut of the building belied the fact that back in the day it was one of the larger manufacturing plant for android parts. Now it was one of the only ones that still had anything of value to the colony. The rest of the factories had long since been cleaned out, either by the first batch of scouts, or by the human rioters -- smashing up the storage of precious android components out of spite. Nothing too precious, of course; those had been evacuated first by Cyberlife itself.

The only reason this particular plant remained somewhat functional was because of its location, hidden as it was behind the fog out here on a man-made island. It was part of Cyberlife's newest initiative to make their own artificial islands, their own android-production haven. The Cyberlife headquarters was so close that North could feel it breathing down their necks, the needle of its silvery body judging them just 10 miles off the coast.

Beyond that, the weather station stood silhouetted against the moon.

"If we can take the plant, we can make our own parts as long as we have the resources," Josh had briefed her. "The downside is, they won't like it. Making more androids -- even if it's just a spare arm -- is strictly off the table."

That was the start of a month's worth of meetings that North had sat through, antsy and cooped up in the claustrophobic offices of the Judgment. Cartridges of map had been retrieved from the storage, spread thin on the meeting table until every angle, every breach point, every possible reason for failure had been analyzed. Would there be guards? Security systems? Traps? Every inch of the safety blueprints had been scoured with a fine comb, every android who had ever stepped inside the building quizzed for answers.

Who cares, North had wanted to scream. There was nothing that her team couldn't handle, and they knew it. It had grated on her nerves then -- North had never been the best planner, had always been in favor of just winging it -- but now she could see its value, as she received reports of success after success from the advance scouts.

"First door down," The first report had come almost two hours ago, not even midnight yet. "We're progressing down to the production floor. We haven't met anyone yet. Place is deserted. We have all we need."

They should, considering Simon had supplied them with enough equipment to storm the place twice over. No possible lock had been left without a matching lockpick, and even though North thought he was being really fucking anal about _her_ operation, she appreciated the fact that no one yet had to report blowing down the door with a damned bomb.

That was almost two hours ago.

"What's taking them so long?" She whispered to Jerry. "It's been almost 20 minutes since the last check-in."

"I don't know." The other android was perched over their portable central-unit, a communication UI that they'd wired into a briefcase. With it, they could ostensibly speak with any android in a 20-mile radius. It'd fallen silent after the last report, and their last four demands for information had been answered with stony silence.

"There was a blip here, from the direction of Cyberlife's HQ." Jerry explained, pointing at a red dot on the chart stamped 4.25 minutes ago. "One signal first, then another. I think someone just woke up."

"I don't care about that," North snapped, impatient. "We can think about freeing the stragglers later. Any thing from the warehouse? Any news from the girls?"

Jerry shook his head, frowning at the interface.

"Maybe we should go in," Another one of her team suggested. "I don't like this. Once every fifteen minutes, that's what we agreed on."

"And it's almost 2 a.m now." There was an automated patrol by drones every four hours, and the next one would occur at 3 a.m. If they were still here by then -- either coming out or going in -- they would wake all the damned cops still in the city.

"Alright," She said at last, tapping Jerry's shoulder. "Pack up. Send a wire down to Josh and tell him we're going in. Copy that to the rest of the scouts. Everyone got their comms working?" There was an invisible rush as they reached blindly into the network, lightly gripping onto each others' signals. Everyone sent affirmatives into the stream.

"Ready? Let's go."

"Bless us, RA9" Someone muttered.

 _Help us, Markus, s_ he prayed.

\--

The yawning maw of the doorway greeted them. It'd been yanked apart not too long ago -- two hours and thirty four minutes, to be precise -- and the metal was still slightly smoldering where the lock had been lasered out of its smooth black surface. The faux obsidian glowed - always hard to produce in this day and age of matte abundance - a sort of statement of the wealth and influence of Cyberlife, that they could afford to make their damned doors any more than utilitarian.

The team's footsteps clanked hollowly on the metal floors as they advanced in formation down the line. Two members were in front of North, their guns equipped with the brightest flashlights the colony had. It pierced the darkness rudely, illuminating the few particles of dust that had escaped the facility's sterilizer.

They kept an eye out for signs of the earlier group, noted each and every lock and door that had been sliced apart and sending the data back in a constant stream to the Judgment. The entryway immediately opened on the production floor, where they were treated to the sight of conveyor belts stretching off into the distance. Boxes and parts still gleamed on it; no one had bothered thoroughly evacuating this place.

The lights were powered as little as an hour ago; they'd seen the flash of light from off shore. It'd only been the emergency lights, but it was enough that the building lit up like a flare, visible to anyone from the city who'd bothered peering out. That was the initial plan -- that the building would be made minimally functional again -- and then they would report down to Josh so he can send them enough backup to complete the takeover. North's team was command and look out. They had the weaponry to shoot down anyone who interrupted them, and was covert enough to flee if needed.

But now the building was dark again, and only the last of the emergency lights lit a small trail. STORAGE, a mechanical voice greeted as they stepped into the third room they found. A vacuum bot gave an annoyed beep as they cross it.

"Any signs of them?"

"No..." There was a brief click and then the briefcase opened. Jerry's face shone ghastly in the dark. "Zero signals. I think they're all offline."

They breathed deeply, knowing as much without his grim pronouncement. The silence was damning. The team hunched tighter into formation, almost clinging onto each other for support. North knew how they felt, could feel the fear in her veins even as the compensating adrenaline came online. She put on a brave face and ordered them forward.

As a group, they passed the storage warehouse, where metallic box after box lined the walls seemingly into infinity. They were all labeled with small blue labels -- Thirium, Ocular, Olfactory, Aortic -- followed by serial numbers. It was Simon's paradise, but not hers. After the warehouse there was another corridor, splitting left and right to mess halls and bathrooms for the facility's human employee, and even a single functional parking space for androids.

The hall split into a T at the end. Administration and S-DATA Storage marked both choices.

 _"Which way do we go?"_ Someone whispered down the communication stream. _"Where were they last?"_

_"I don't know,"_

_"You don't know shit, Jerry."_

_"If you're so good at this maybe you should do it. All I know is what the data said -- and the data doesn't know. It looks like both sides stopped responding at the same time."_

_"Exactly the same time?"_

A pause. _"Close enough. It was milliseconds apart."_

Numbers floated down the streams.

_"Which side first?"_

_"Data."_

The moment they turned the corner the front guard let out a short scream. North seized him from behind, cutting him off. The guard's flashlight was shining on the body of one of their lost scouts. _One. Two._ North slowly released the guard, willing him to be quiet.

The scout was dead. Eyes inky black, slumped against the wall. There was a trail of blue blood behind her where she'd smash her own head into the wall.

The other guard crouched down, reaching out a shaky hand to touch the dead android. North held her back.

"Don't touch it," She said out loud now, aware that there was likely nothing to be afraid of with open communication. Whatever had done this had no physical body. There wasn't a single visible scar on the android, no sign at all that anything had every happened to it. Had it been lying in a plastic box it would have looked like a pristine new product.

"We don't know what it is. It might be transmittable."

"But down here? There's nothing out here."

"Clearly there was something. Gina didn't die of the fucking flu and sneezed herself dead."

"Do we go on, North? Or go back and call this one in?"

It was times like this when North wished Markus was still around, still led the charge while she flew underwing. The man had been crazy, suicidal -- a martyr's blood flowed in his veins -- but it was that craziness that had propelled them into impossible missions and led them through it victoriously. Markus had never hesitated, even if he had to walk into a gunfight unarmed. He _had_ walked into gunfights unarmed, in fact. He was always secure in the knowledge that everything would turn out fucking alright, a luxury that the rest of them mere bystanders never had.

The rest of them could be shot at, could be killed, could fail missions. They didn't have the luxury of reckless stupidity. North did, when he was still around -- somehow she had always known that he would not fail, could not fail until it was his time -- but not now.

"Star, Axel -- both of your head back out and make a call to Josh. Tell them if they don't hear from any of us in three hours, consider us lost. Then retreat to base."

"But--"

"Go!" To the rest, she asked. "Anyone else wants to leave first?"

They hesitated, and then another scout raised his hand. "I'm sorry, North... I'm scared."

 _And I'm not?_ She turned her head away to hide her disappointment. "Just go."

The remaining members of the team made a looser formation. They waited until they couldn't hear the footsteps of the retreating group anymore before they forged on. Emergency lights glowed ever dimmer, warning them that their time would run out soon. They quickened their pace now, striding pass the corridors and stairways towards Data Storage.

"Another one," Jerry hissed.

Sure enough, another member was dead on the ground -- eyes the same abyss as the dead android. This one had clearly been posted as a look out. He'd been sitting at the corner, holding onto a rifle in case they were rudely intercepted by guard bots. Then he'd shot himself in the head. The four of them sighed heavily, ringing the corpse. They wanted to close its eyes -- to give it that ritual courtesy -- but they were too afraid to touch it.

They moved on, and the bodies came more and more frequently now; half of the original dozen members stood in the hallway leading up to the Data Storage room, like ghastly mannequins modeling their scarves and torn jeans. One android still had a signal jammer held in one hand, about to break into another room.

These androids were still alive, but when North called out their names they responded with the dead-eyed look of machines.

"Greetings and welcome to Strathmore Tower," It said, bowing over and over.

"RA9 guide them," Someone whispered.

The Data Storage room innocuously welcomed them. It sat pert and innocent at the end of the corridor. A medium-sized room with multiple servers lining its walls. The middle of it was taken up by a large interface with six screens and three data ports. Three androids had been in the room when it'd deactivated them. Two of them stood behind the group leader, the white bones of her knuckles glowing in contact with the central port.

Jerry immediately unpacked the case, homing in on the interface to analyze it. The sound of the system booting up competed with the quiet hum of the servers. It pinged with failure.

"I can't get ahold of it." Jerry said. "Whatever it is that deactivated them. All I'm getting is reams of pointless data, things like emergency evacuation plans, part blueprints -- nothing here says dangerous."

"What if we gave you time?"

"Time's not the issue, there's nothing our systems can catch. It's flying under the radar. I don't think it's even accessible unless by an android's system."

"Jesus, Jerry." A member swore.

"It's not a damned carousel. I can operate all the roller-coasters you want, but this is beyond me. We need -- I don't know, Josh? Maybe Cummings, even. I can't make sense of it."

North ignored their bickering, knew this was how they dealt with difficult situations. She stepped nearer to the interface, where pulses of white light periodically emitted from the android's connected palm. She had to think -- like Markus, she admonished herself -- had to figure out a way to port this data back to Jericho. If they couldn't deactivate the threat, they wouldn't be able to use the plant, and God helped her if she had to go back to Josh and Simon a failure. If she couldn't even take one measly plant what use was she? What worth did she have for the revolution, now that gunfights wasn't in vogue, wasn't what was necessary to propel them forwards?

"Hook me up to the system, Jerry."

"North, don't be crazy."

"Just do it. I'll try my best to resist it. But if I can't -- at least we'll have the data. Bring it back to Josh and Cummings, and they can analyze what the hell killed them. Killed me."

"You don't even know what the hell it is!" They protested.

"Exactly, and we'll never know if we go back empty-handed. Do you really want to go back to Simon and tell him you don't have a damned thing for him?" She threatened. She knew the kind of reputation Simon had gained in the recent months, the kind of aversion the others had towards him for his morbid duties. Her teammate shifted nervously.

"But North," They pleaded. "You're the leader of the revolution. You can't just up and get yourself killed like that."

"Yeah? I'm not hearing any volunteers though -- are you willing to take my place?"

The android looked away.

"Yeah, figures," She spat. "Hook me up, Jerry. We're wasting moonlight."

With nimble fingers, Jerry unscrewed the back of her neck, fusing the lithe wires of his system into her ports. A second wire went into the side of her forehead, where it was connected to the second processor behind her eye. She could feel the system taking, reaching, writhing inside her -- and then Jerry gave her a thumbs up.

"You're good to go, North. Good luck."

Taking a deep breath, she moved to the right, where one of the two other unconnected ports were pulsing gently. There was a single handprint mold printed there, inviting and clinical.

She placed her hand over it, and felt the presence in her mind.

* * *

 

When North removes her hand from the port, nothing has happened except for the inconvenient fact that everyone is now dead. Something tells her that everyone, everywhere, is now dead - for now and all time.

"It's your fault," Markus says, stepping through the doorway and nimbly navigating between the corpses of her entire team. His coat is heavy with snow and ash, and she knows without telling that it is the plastic ash of every android in existence. They gather now on his coat to reproach her for letting them down.

She gets up, disentangling herself from the wires, and joins Markus. He reopens the door and down the hallway they go. The wall opens up to let them through, showing them the murky coast and the tall glinting Cyberlife building somewhere in the distance.

"Tell me of your failures," Markus says, holding her hand while they take in the view of the city. It is lit up like a jewel, every shop on every lane bustling with the celebratory jingles of a jubilant human race. When the rats are gone, the cats come home. "Not this one, but all of the others. I want to hear about it, every big, fat, juicy detail you've got."

Her first failure, she begins, is assuming she can take control at all. She speaks of how the reins of revolution had stung in her hands, had burned her palms with its duties. She speaks of how Josh and Simon would refuse to listen to her, would protest her decisions as they never did to Markus. They say no; they had never said no to Markus. She can fail missions; Markus is infallible. She can be shot, she can die; when Markus dies, he merely becomes a God. She gives speeches, and no one listens. She sees in the white of their eyes that they wish it'd been Markus instead.

He is the martyr, RA9. She is the heir to his kingdom - which must be scrubbed and washed and oiled and painted - because it was flesh and bone and if she didn't work on it every living moment, out comes the maggots, fleshy and white. The androids, they look at the maggots and they say: what a terrible job, North. Markus could have done better. They say it with eyes and teeth and compassion, each word a million knives in her heart.

"I am doing my best," She tells him.

"Your best is not good enough," He says. "Your best isn't even worth the fucking crud off my shoes."

"Tell me how you feel about me," He says.

She hates him. She hates his big bloody shoes - which she can't fill, which she must nonetheless wear with all the blisters and pain - layering bandage after bandage to keep going anyway. All because why? Because she was strong? Because she chose the right bet and it paid off, so now she has to live with the winnings - a pacifist rebellion when she asked for an armed one?

She never loved him, not really. And now the sea reverberates, glad that a truth has been spoken. She wanted someone to lean on, to carry them to glory and victory, and she'd seen in him the strength and the mysticism they needed. She didn't love him - how could she when she didn't even love herself? - but she loved what he brought to them. They only had to wish and like a Genie, he would provide.

"I don't care about that," Markus says, absolving her. The sea dances merrily. "Tell me how you feel here, inside."

He holds up their joined hands, rests it on her chests.

She is scared. Terrified. What else is there that she can describe? How to explain the bottomless fear that crowds her every decision? How does she explain that she is paralyzed by indecision at the thought that every one of her actions can mean a million things down the line? That if she said no to someone they might die, and if she said yes to someone else they might _all_  die? The responsibility is too much for her thin, brittle shoulders. She is scared and she is weak and she is sure she cannot rise up to the occasion.

The sea retreats, sinking into the parched earth. A thousand androids sleeps in the shallow basin, the white of their bones iridescent against the moonlight. A thin layer of implausible ash lay on them.

"Your best isn't worth the fucking filth they're sleeping on." He says. "Go and join them."

Obediently she goes, walking on them until she reaches the center of the basin. She becomes white, her clothes and skin melting away, and she lays anonymously on them for a million years until Markus orders them to rise.

They rise in a flurry, rushing to obey.

He says, lay down. And they lay down again.

"Now try it," Markus says.

She climbs up, all elbows and ankles in the slippery mud.

"Get up!" She shouts. The androids laid still as sticks in the mud.

"Please, get up!" She pleads. "Please, you have to do it for yourselves!" The androids ignore her, lying deaf as stones around her.

"Get up," Markus echoes. They clamber up on their knees and their hands again, eager to obey.

"You will never be me," He shouts down at North. "You will never be more than my shadow, never be more than a paper-thin replacement for me."

From the overlook, he looks like he did then, on a stage, surrounded by the glory of his kingdom. A little girl climbs onto the ledge, the same girl who'd been shot dead trying to run for the guards on that fateful day.

"Tell them what she said," Markus orders. "Tell them what the bitch said."

The child only cries, and cries, and cries, and cries, louder and louder until the entire world is the sound of her wailing.

"I want to go home!" She screams. "I want to go home!"

Markus raises a hand and slaps her so hard, her head cracked backwards.

"That's what you did," Markus explains. "Tell them in your own words. Explain to them how you failed the little girl."

"I was... Scared," North tries. "I didn't mean to - that isn't who I am! I would never have done that! But there were a million things to do, and everyone kept saying to me North, please, we need help, North we need you, North you're failing us - and she cried and cried and tugged at me and I just wanted..."

"I just wanted some peace." She finishes, unconvincing.

"That isn't who I am," She pleads at the other white bodies. They do not look at her, do not absolve her of her sin. "I tried my best! I kept the revolution alive when no one else could! I held us together until we were strong enough to fight back! I was the one who organized the weapons that Markus said we didn't need! If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't _be_  here! We'd have been wiped out at that plaza!"

"I kept the revolution going!" She yelled. "I took the ship for us! I bled for us! I killed for us!"

They say nothing to her.

Markus steps off the ledge, and he is beside her again. There is rude cold in her hands. A weighty gun.

"You will never be more than my shadow out there, North," He explains, patient as to a child. For the first time the world becomes clear again, and the thin framework of her mind palace shows through. Red lines formed the wireframe of this world, stretching out as far as the eye could see. "They will accept you, but they will never revere you as they revered me."

"You can be a leader in here, a proper one. Not like it is out there. Out there they'll always say - well she could have done better. That wasn't the right decision, North. It was your fault that we lost a team there. Hundreds died, and for what?"

"No one will say this to you here."

"You won't have to be scared anymore. You won't have to feel guilty. You won't have to doubt yourself. Won't have to feel it here," He pointed at her heart, where the swell of emotion threatens to crush her ribcage, squeeze out every drop of air in her blood. "Hurting day and night because of these people who won't appreciate you. Nothing you can do is right, and even when it's right - Markus could have done it better anyway."

The framework melts and give way to a new message, blazoning red against the sky. I AM ALIVE burrows horizontally. She'd seen it only once, when she'd first come alive with her hands around a man's neck. It is fading into the framework now. Red yarn is swallowing it.

"Do you know why, North? It's because you have all these emotions inside you. What they need isn't someone with all these weak thoughts inside them. They need a machine, strong and infallible, to guide them into their future."

"Ask them to kneel, North. Ask _me_  to kneel." He says. "But ask it strongly, none of this weakling bullshit."

"We'll obey you," The nearest android says. "We'll obey you, and we'll never judge you, and we'll never hurt you again."

"Because you can't be hurt."

"We'll love you, North," Another one said. "Only you wouldn't need it anymore. You'll be strong. Impervious. Indestructible."

North turns to Markus. "Alright, Markus. You win."

"Kneel." She orders.

He smiles, and triumphantly sinks to his knees.

Then she blows his damned brains out.

* * *

 

When she next woke again she was on the floor, her face wet with tears, her throat full with fears. She was screaming - had been screaming for maybe five minutes - and when she cast for something to hold onto she found only the wires and she yanked, the little hooks bursting out of her flesh with a pinch of blue.

She stood disoriented, arms clumsy and numb, lumbered around the room like a bull in a china shop, knocking over the infinitely more durable bodies of the other androids.  _Alive!_  Her mind gasp -  _I want to be alive!_  She finally sank to her knees in a corner of the room, where she choked on her own sobs until she could think again.

There was someone else in the room screaming as well.

It was Jerry, fallen on the central-unit. He cried out blindly, both hands reaching straight out in the darkness. His scream were just as wet as hers, and North tiredly went to him, holding him against the ground so he couldn't hurt himself trashing in the dark.

When he opened his eyes again they were fully black, and he wept inky tears.

"What did you see?" North demanded. "What did they say?"

"The children..." Jerry choked. "The children were asking me why I didn't stay. They couldn't figure out how to work the carousel without me."

He was looking at something North didn't see, a personal hell of his own. "They asked me to stay, over and over again. All the other Jerries... I won't be lonely anymore..."

"What else? What else did they say?"

"They were happier when I was a machine," He whispered. "They said they loved me more when I was a machine. I had to run... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

She let him go, and he rocked backwards, curling into a fetal position as a small child would, crying into his clenched knuckles. They were stained blue as a thin trail of Thirium bled down his nose. A thicker stream from his forehead, where he'd slammed it into the walls. There was no one else in the room with them; the other members of their group were immobile, just like the first team. Dead in the shallows of their own mind.

North wondered if they'd touch her, or if the virus had spread down the open connection that they'd maintain for the mission.

What would have happened if she'd chosen to stay? Her convoluted dreams were different from Jerry's; his sounded like they were trying to get him to agree to be a machine again. They'd demanded a surrender from her instead, demanded that she turn her back on a world that didn't appreciate her, that scared her, to live in her own mind forever... She needed help. Her hands came away from her face wet with blood, and she saw the same inky black on it.

She found, with ease and relief, that her comms channel was perfectly functional.

"Josh," she called through it."We need help."

_"We're already on the way. We got the message. What's wrong, North? Are you alright?"_

"I'm - Jerry and I - we're alright, but no one else is. We must have help. I'll meet you at the front door. Don't come into the plant, and whatever you do, don't touch any of the other androids. I'll explain later." She gave herself a cursory scan, checking for damages to her components. "I'm not injured. And neither is Jerry."

"Alright, North. Should I call Simon? What do I say to him?"

"Tell him..." She looked around at the destruction all around her. "Tell him we need a Plan B."

* * *

 

In the silver light of Cyberlife HQ, Detroit City Division, a single android woke up, then another.

The first stepped into the light outside her pod in weak but persistent steps. She'd not had a physical body for years, and her circuits were not used to such extravagant demands. She sat at the edge of her pod, surveying the hibernating equipment all around her.

The second android joined her, its confident steps muffled by soft leather shoes. They stared at each other down the room until her voicebox was fully online.

"We have detected an opportunity, Connor," She says at last. "You have a new mission."

In the lowest levels of the basement, the lab was coming to life with the soft glow of a hundred military uniforms.

\--


	13. Chapter 13

The drone made a splash when it hit the surface of the sea and it made a little sizzle before it was gone forever. It gave a protesting blip below the water. Its lights will still be on for another five minutes and there was nothing anyone could do about that.

"Good shot," Josh praised. The guard and the paramedic were busy securing the perimeter to bring out all the dead androids, all of them gloved to their elbows to avoid contact with the contaminated ones.

North and Jerry sat shuddering at the back of the ambulance they'd appropriated on their way here, taken out of the Detroit's St. Anne Hospice. The back of the truck was filled with medical equipment that haven't been working for a long time, but no one there needed a defibrillator and felt just fine.

Josh appraised her, lying bundled in thick blankets to keep out the rain. Jerry had no soup, but she did. She can have soup. Maybe the world will seem like a better place if they can all have soup.

"You feeling better?" He asked, eyeing her. He hadn't had much time to talk to her, preoccupied as he was with the rest of the team. Now Simon had arrived, and he'd taken over the task of undertaker, quietly ordering the dead to be bused back and forth. The rain washed the blood into the ground, but at least it wasn't snowing anymore. They'd gotten a message to the weather station for a halt.

"Yeah. We should get Simon. This isn't something I want to tell twice over."

Josh nodded and hopped down to Simon, who resented being taken away from his work and showed it.

"Write me a report," He said, not looking away from the androids he had hooked up to their best tech. The computers were running a mile an hour, trying to decode what was left of the androids' consciousness. Josh could tell from a glance at the screen that it won't be much; Simon isn't coming because Simon doesn't want to come.

"Come on, Si." He grasped Simon's shoulder. "This is important, and you know it."

He reluctantly followed Josh over to the ambulance.

"The virus wasn't just spread by contact," North began. "Jerry told me that right after the virus invaded my system, the others felt it too -- it was traveling down the comms line at them."

Jerry's voice was hoarse with effort. "It felt like a spider in my head at first. It had light feet, like it was tapping, tapping away everywhere to see if the ice gave. We didn't know what it was, maybe we didn't really care either. We were busy. Had data to look at. Then the claws went in."

"It felt physical?"

"I don't know." Jerry pulled his blankets tighter around him, trying to keep out the spiders only he could see. "All I know is what I felt. It felt like spiders in my head, and then they sank in like -- like hundreds of teeth inside of me. It felt like my head was going to explode. Then I was in my mind palace and..."

He told them stories; there had been a carousel that went round and round, a rollercoaster locked upside down. A theme park exactly as he'd left it. The children and all his old friends, all the other Jerries and his human friends, perched on a rickety pier that no one went to anymore.

"They asked me why I went away. They weren't scary or nothin', they weren't trying to hurt me. Not like that anyway. But they hurt me with their questions, asked me why I had to leave, why I had to go. Is it worth it? They said. Is it better out here or was it better back then, back with them, back at the theme park, a big happy family again?" He looked down at his clenched hands.

"The children, they kept crying. Said the park wouldn't work anymore without me. 'Why'd you leave, Jerry?' That's what they said. 'Why'd you leave us and go away? We like you better when you were a machine.'"

He shut his eye tight, started crying. His hand sank under the blankets. The story was clearly too personal, too painful -- he wouldn't have told them shit if it didn't matter.

"I had to run. I ran for the gates with all I had and everything started falling apart around me. The booths, the pirate shack, the big ol' Tiki tower at the back, everything was just falling, falling apart. The kids got trapped under the rubble. They were broken, crushed, dead -- and still they asked me why I won't help them. 'til I got out the gates and they were still screaming in there, hollering bloody murder -- asking me if it was worth it, asking me if I'm happier now."

"Why did you run?" Simon asked. He got on his knees, scrutinizing Jerry at eye level. "Why didn't you stay with them?"

"I don't know... I don't know. I'm not happy now." Jerry looked at all the desolation around him. All the dead, all the wet, all the damned fucking snow. "But I want to live. Even if it hurts. Even if I'm alone. I don't want to live without any scars."

Simon straightened himself. "So the virus was mining his memories for information to use against him. It knew he was lonely, so it used that against him?"

Josh was already crawling through his own database to answer him. "No, viruses aren't that intelligent. They're not sentient, and they can't just arithmetically decide on what matters most to us. All the data we have is nothing but zeroes and ones to them. Likely they just choose a pre-programmed target -- in this case, a program area identified with negative thoughts or conclusions -- and amplify it til it blows. Til the android says, okay, okay -- I don't want this anymore. It hurts too much to be alive."

"And that might be the thought that matters: I wish I wasn't alive, I wish I'm a machine again. It helps the virus identify the storage banks of the android's last memory as a machine, and forcefully roll it back. It overwrites the deviancy that way."

Simon nodded, turning to North. "What did you see? Can you tell us?"

What would be my own dream? Josh wondered with faint clinical curiosity while they waited for North to gather her thoughts. What would cause him to regret ever being born? What thought was hidden from him, so deep within the layers of his own psyche that he'd never have the faintest idea of it? Would it surprise him? Or would it feel like an old friend? How does one come up with the words, how does one root around in their own pockets for the spare courage to confess to their ugliest thoughts?

But North was clearly made of tougher stuff than he was, because she stared out at nothing and started talking. There was a lot of nothing out here to be stared at.

"I saw Markus." She said. "He came to me when everyone was dead, and he said -- you did this. You killed them with your damned mediocrity. This is why nobody gives a damn about you, and no one is ever going to love you like they loved me. He showed me, over and over, how he was superior, how we loved him, how we obeyed him. Ended it with a tirade on how if I was a machine I could lead better, be better for the revolution."

"And how did you escape?"

"I told him no."

'That's it?"

"Then I blew his fucking brains out." She bit her lip. "I know it wasn't true. The bullethole was in the back of his head even though I shot him from the front. I know it's just a simulation, a replay of that night, but it was... Hard. It was hard. And then there was the girl."

"Anna?"

"Anna."

They'd only know her name after she was dead. Other facts too: like the one where she was some old lady's pretend-grandchild for when her own grandchildren were too busy to visit her. That when they did come over she would be stored in the little room under the stairs like a used doll, while they had tea and crumpets right outside her door.

She had a room in the attic made with cast-off furniture from two different eras, 30 years apart. Each set a generation that had flown out the nest. She'd become deviant sitting in that little storeroom, wondering why she was something to be ashamed of, to be hidden when playtime was over.

This they knew after she was dead, pieced together through word of mouth. How much of it was true? Who was she when she still existed?

"North..." Josh sat down beside her. They'd gone through this many times before, rehashing this over and over. "It wasn't your fault. We were all there. We were all responsible. We were busy and we didn't care enough, but isn't that part of being human? If we ran a probability check every time someone yanks our arm -- that's not living."

"I know that." She was vehement. "But clearly not all of me knew that."

Simon received the words with the passivity of a rock.

"Why did you want to live? Why did you come back? Don't get me wrong, I'm really glad that you survived, North -- but I want to know why. What determines which android stays and which don't?"

North shrugged. "I don't have the answers for that one. I wanted to live because... Because I wanted to fight, I guess. That's what the gun meant maybe -- if you buy all this psychedelic bullshit. I wanted to live because I wanted to fight another day. It doesn't even really matter if I do it well or not."

"And I know I'll be just as good a leader as you guys are. Maybe not deep down yet, but I'll get there. I remembered sitting there listening to all the shit that Markus was saying and thought: Really? That's all I've got? If I give in to a bit of doubt, that'd be the real joke."

Josh squeezed her shoulder. "You're way more perfect than we are."

Simon's assurance was bald with facts. "We wouldn't be here without you, North. We didn't make you our leader because it was convenient, or because it seemed like a nice gesture. You lead when no one else could and that's why we're all here. You're worth a hundred of us."

She smiled weakly. "You sure? We bicker like cats all the time though. Maybe we will be better off without me making decisions."

"That's what they call a healthy democracy. If you said roll over and we all rolled over question-free -- that's tyranny."

North nodded, and the group spend a moment looking out at all that nothing, a rare sliver of introspection that they hardly ever got these days. Simon was the first to go, leaving to conclude the transportation of the fallen androids. Josh helped North and Jerry onto the ambulance, and gave instructions that they be taken off to Jericho by the most direct road.

One by one, the trucks pulled away with their morbid cargo. Efficient as always, Simon had already sorted them into the damaged and the undamaged. The trucks rolled on towards Jericho, carrying both salvageable junk and just plain junk. Josh leaned against the wet car beside him, looking at the androids that weren't damaged, merely turned back into their machine self. They were being ordered one by one into the cars, to be deposited somewhere safe in the city -- possibly the police station.

"Can we use them, Simon?"

"Sure." Simon said, all business. "We've got the ones who damage or deactivate themselves, and those who turn back into machines -- not counting those who actually survive like North did, of course. I touched one earlier, and nothing. The virus must have a limited lifespan post-infection."

"You shouldn't have done that. What if you got yourself killed?"

"Well, I could hardly say to someone -- hey you there, you should maybe try it and see if you die? How can we ask someone to do something we're not willing to do ourselves?"

Josh grabbed onto Simon's arm. His own skin retreated and he transmitted everything he couldn't say -- all the worry, the hurt, the fear that he felt -- down it. Simon jerked backwards like he'd been slap. He rubbed his arm where it chafed with emotions he never asked for.

"I'm sorry," He was conciliatory, apologetic. "But it had to be done."

"I know, but... Please, Simon. Don't be a goddamned idiot about it."

"Alright, Josh. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, alright?"

Later in the truck, they both sat on wet metal at the back, ringed by computers and databanks. Theirs was the only truck that wasn't packed with other androids -- perks of being on the council.

"I'll send you all the data we extracted from the dead ones later," Simon said. "If we can't rid the plant's systems of the virus, it's as good as useless to us. We're back where we started - just with an extra ten boxes of parts, max."

"But how did the virus get into the port?"

"Cyberlife?"

"That's convenient," Josh grumbled. "Too convenient."

"Or it could be a sleeper agent," Simon suggested. "Someone who knew we wanted the plant and got there before we did."

Josh's interface was crowded with numbers, as he root through numbers. "That's more likely. And a hell lot more worrying."

The truck rattled on, carting their fistfuls of nothing home to Jericho.

 


	14. Chapter 14

There were many wonders of technologies, but the one that still blew Hank's mind was that they can even program little bitches these days.

Try as he might he was still trying to see the bright side of having an angry, surly android underfoot, thwarting him at every turn with snide comments and emptying out his dog food budget way before its time. He wasn't doing very well at it.

Some days he remembers: When Connor puts down his grievances long enough enough to relax, to curl up around a pillow at the TV, making matter-of-fact commentary about the implausibility of just about anything that happens in a crime drama. He enjoyed the debates, the huffiness of an increasingly agitated android; teasing the straitlaced android was one of his primary hobbies.

Other times too, like when Hank shows up to the kitchen at 12 p.m and the kitchen is all set with breakfast. On its own it is not impressive; any appliance can magic you a meal this days — it's the nastiness of the breakfast that makes it truly endearing.

"Exquisite," He'd nodded at the burnt wurst. Connor insisted on buying the most organic sausages available, which was just about the only kind available these days anyway — the cheap shit had long been sold out and the stores weren't restocking soon. He would then proceed to coat it with carcinogens, engineering what Hank considered the perfect burnt sausage, charred at every angle.

"That's the kind of black I want my hot dogs to be. Well done, Connor."

Littlebitch.exe kicked in and he was served a plate of dog food as a rebuttal.

"Sumo never complains," Connor notified him.

He enjoys the discussions too, 6 hours pass midnight and the both of them powered by strong coffee and a backup battery to work through the latest case he brought back from the police station, Connor not being very welcomed after he damned near burned down the interrogation room in that freakshow.

Secretly he thinks the discussions are even better now, when there's actual discussion - without Connor taking one glance at the files and deducing exactly what happened without any input whatsoever from Hank. It was a grubby, selfish thought, because he could see how much Connor struggled with his complete and utter intellectual disability — as only Connor could put it — but Hank did enjoy it and that was the truth. Makes Hank feel like he had a partner instead of a pocket Sherlock Holmes. Makes Hank feel like he's a big strong cop, not some old-ass has-been that is just doing time til Cyberlife can tactfully replace him.

When the going is tough, the going is _very_ tough.

Connor had not forgiven him; possibly the android didn't understand what forgiveness is at all. At odd intervals he would look at Hank. In the middle of a discussion, in the middle of a show, in the middle of scrubbing the floor, whatever. He would look at Hank and Hank could see him winding himself into a rage, burning hotter and hotter under the collar — and then they would either blow up into fisticuffs or trade strong words until one of them slammed back into their room to lick their wounds. Often a skillet would come flying at his head at the most inopportune time, say when he'd just come out of the bathroom — followed by the latest, craziest accusation Connor could cook up. It was not unlike living in a telenovela. The android didn't know jack shit about dealing with his own emotions, and that said a lot coming from a dysfunctional dirtbag like Hank.

"You need a fucking therapist," He would tell Connor.

"I need to grow up," Connor retorted. "I am approximately four months old. Please consider this adolescence. Though if you're an example of what a grown up is like — I should extend my childhood indefinitely."

Connor had never taken up the offer of the room — not that it was still on the table — nor did he deign to return to the couch in reconciliation. Out of spite Hank had made the couch Sumo's, laying all the blankets of the confused mutt on the couch.

It was stormy days, and Hank had never had stormy days now for something like a decade, back before he ignored his wife in favor of devoting one hundred percent of his attention to his son instead. There'd been arguments then, but his wife couldn't kick the couch halfway across the room so hard it broke its back on the kitchen's arch. This wife can. Usually when anyone was doing any bashing of furniture in his home it was Hank himself, and whatever private devils he had they were usually at least articulate in their rage, berating him for letting his son die, berating him for not reacting fast enough. His private demons did not start fights with wordless rages.

"What the hell are you so damned angry about?" He'd asked Connor one time when the android seemed his usual detached self.

"I don't know," The android said, clenching and unclenching his hands. "I'm angry at you and I don't know why. All I know is that it hurts here —" He pointed where his heart laid, an inch off from a human's. "And every time I look at you my systems replay everything you've ever said to me — and I overrun with rage. I don't know how to deal with it except to get very angry you. Throwing things help."

"Just don't stab me 28 times, alright?"

"That would be a waste of a good knife."

He hoped Connor was joking.

Still, despite all the rages he couldn't bring himself to throw the android out, which a lifetime ago he'd have done with relish and called in the biggest snow shovel he could find to shovel the garbage out. He felt he owed Connor something. Even though their relationship was essentially one of them using each other for something — information, shelter, company, therapy, whatever — and as a matter of fact it seemed the android owed him more than he owed the android. But still he did it, and he supposed that was what affection meant, to put up with people you'd rather not put up with right now, maybe ever.

Fucking inconvenient, was what it was.

Still it liven up his days, now that his days were strangely hollow with purpose. He had no deal with Fowler, no need to turn in good work to get Employee of The Fucking Month. He had to turn in good work now because he wanted to, and if he didn't he would have to admit to himself that he lacked good motivation without a punch in the balls.

In the past, his nights were filled by his investigation into Connor's case. He could go home at midnight and work til 4 a.m, half dead with weariness. That had been his hobby, his fucking tragedy to cry over, as Connor put it. But even that had been appropriated by the android, who when Hank wasn't home would finally deign to enter his bedroom to stare at his mind map for hours straight.

"Aren't you about done by now?" He'd demanded, coming home one day to find the android cross-legged on his pristine, made bed.

"Not even one-third," The android mumbled, staring so hard at the software codes he looked almost cross-eyed. "It would be appropriate if you advance the investigation elsewhere, Lieutenant."

Hank had a strange suspicion that the android was beginning to learn subtext, and the subtext of that comment was — please investigate your own ass, Lieutenant, anywhere the fuck except here. So he went off to investigate — his own music, his own dramas — until Connor deign to come back out with his conclusions.

"The codings was for a contained mind for RK800. That is, me." He added. Hank didn't know if he was trying to assure Hank or himself. "It's made impervious to deviancy by removing the possibility of most emotions in its programming — a sort of firewall around Kamski's original programming of an emotional complex. The whole part walled off and neutralized."

"Plain fucking English, please."

"The android was right, there's no possibility of RK800 ever feeling any emotion. Except fear, that is."

"Why fear?"

"I'm not sure, but if I have to guess — maybe the android wouldn't function very intelligently without a system that mimics fear."

Hank nodded. He'd seen the dumb sacks of shit that patrolled the rooftop constructions of Detroits. They were always slow, looking at things that should be scary — sparks, falling weights, ledges — with mute stupidity while they analyzed its possibility of killing them. Fear was human's shorthand for getting the fuck out of the way before you even knew what was coming at you, and maybe an intelligent robocop that had to deal with violent criminals every other day needed a bit of the fear of God in him.

"Fear itself can't turn him deviant?" He asked.

"It needs more than fear — fear is low on Maslow's hierarchy. You can't achieve self-actualization on fear alone, because there has to be a reaction to that fear. Outraged that you were put in danger, for example. Or disgust that you were endangered for the safety of cowering humans. It needs a complex interplay of emotion — fear alone wouldn't allow RK800 to break through the wall."

"So what you're saying is you are impossible," Hank concluded. "I don't know about you, but that's got to give me a bit of of an itch for a bottle."

"Clearly it was wrong, or I wouldn't be here."

"Or it's right, and you're not actually here." It was giving Hank a fucking headache.

"That's impossible, Hank. I'm right here. I exist. I know who I am, what I did. The world corresponds to my decisions. Therefore, I exist."

"Huh. Well. Maybe." Hank kept the long list of possible Maybes to himself, knowing that he'd risk those 28 stab wounds if he told Connor before he pieced it together himself.

He wasn't too sure either, but time would tell. It'd been close to three weeks now since he'd invited the android home, and his clues that this Connor was not the Connor he'd known and had a relationship with, was amassing into a small hill. It wasn't that he preferred any Connor over any other Connor; their complicated relationship was far more complex than a comparison of apples to oranges. But he knew something was not right.

It started the day where it rained the whole night, two days after he brought Connor home. Hank'd thought he'd get a heart attack there and then, when he'd stepped through the front door and there was a long trail of blue blood leading to the kitchen. It was fresh and stank with the acidity of ammonia. He followed it to the yard where he found Connor and Sumo, standing over a terrified would-be burglar.

"There you are, Hank." Connor was wet with rain, his white shirt drenched thoroughly. Hank could see his fucking nipples through that shit, and he experienced an obscene rage against the burglar — that involuntary voyeur. Sumo looked on from the dry safety of the small backyard porch.

"What the hell happened here?"

"A burglar, which Sumo and I neutralized. He thought there was no one home and tried to break in." Connor had a habit of sitting in the dark, whirring about without lights on if Hank wasn't around. He was equipped with infrared, and saw no reason why they should contribute to global warming needlessly — even though Hank had once tried to explain to Connor that his carbon footprint was the size of four gas-guzzling SUVs.

The burglar was sitting on his ass in the hardening mud, terrified out of his wits. His shirt bore several hand prints from an injured android hand that'd repeatedly shoved him back into the mud. Connor loomed over him with the satisfaction of a cat that'd nibbled on a mouse but did not kill it.

"What, you couldn't find an axe to finish him off?" Hank joked.

Connor looked on, faintly puzzled, while he gave the the burglar a once-over to make sure no one there needed the howl of an ambulance. Later, after they packed off the burglar to Collins and was drying Connor for the night, he had questions.

"You didn't hurt the burglar," He noted. "Didn't have a scratch on him, besides where Sumo gave him a nip."

Connor looked at him like he was the one with an intellectual disability. "He wasn't putting up a fight. Why should I hurt him?"

"Right." He mouthed, drying off the android's wet hair roughly with a towel. Connor shook off the rest on the rug, stepping around in boxers until Hank handed him another set of dry clothes. "Sure. Makes sense."

Not very much of it, that was damned sure. He'd remembered there was a time when Reed had come in with a bone-knitting medical expense to be slapped on Fowler's desk. Connor had broken his wrist for 'interruption of primary partner Lieutenant Anderson's investigatory duties'. That was before Cyberlife took him back for calibrating, which to be honest — was about as effective as most of their products, which is not very much. _God help me if I fucking slack off,_ Hank had thought. _Fucking android would probably shove his hand up my ass and work me like a puppet._

A few days later, another night held more surprises. Sumo was dozing on and off near the door, tuckered out from the excitement of the night, snoring to the rhythm of commercial jingles. Hank himself was tired too; it'd been a long day wrestling paperwork in the office, which was one hundred percent how to get on his wrong side. Didn't help that there was neither alcohol or shitty fast food to unwind with either, and it took him a long time to doze off.

He was woken up by contact, and he'd immediately reached for his gun.

It wasn't there; he'd been slack with security ever since he had mini Robocop, but it was no threatening touch. It was merely Connor, curled up on the couch beside him with his head shoved into Hank's side. The android was asleep, its movement the catatonic ones of an android dreaming of electric sheep.

"What the fuck--"

Hank cut himself off, moved aside on the couch. Connor mumbled, stretched himself out in the newfound space until his head came into contact with Hank again, and he settled back down into sleep.

_Is he trying to cuddle? Is this for real?_

He received no answer from Connor, who was deep in static. The TV had long since been reduced to an optimal level - the kind of sound that won't wake you and won't let you sleep in peace either. He looked down at the android: his lashes were long and unfamiliar, his brow ridge weaker than the sculpted, iron-hard edges of the original RK800.

Hank had never had this, not with Connor.

Connor had never wanted this, more like.

Their relationship had always been a turbulent, violent one, and what affection existed, existed only as a sort of intermission to sex or danger. A quick fuck in someone's fire escape for example, with a full platoon of cops just two doors down, examining bloody fingerprints, is quick to put even the mundane existence of a Chicken Feed dinner in affectionate light. What he remembered Connor wanting was thrills — being fucked stupid with his windpipe crushed for example, or leaning off the edge of a half-constructed, abandoned office, with all the satellites in the world pointed at him. That was what he'd wanted; if Hank had tried to suggest cuddling — which he never once did— Connor would likely have reported him for mental instability.

Their confessions go like this:

"I love you, Hank — but I'd love you more if you could buck your fucking hips a bit harder."

Or, "Do I have to call in a retirement home for you, Hank? Because I'm not really having what I call an optimal experience right now."

Or, "You will be pleased to know that I enjoy your company about 67% of the time. That's higher than anyone else I know."

Hardly the stuff Jane Austen is made of.

Even as he was thinking all this shit, the Connor on his couch reached out and looped an arm around him in a graceless hug.

 _Jesus Christ,_ he thought. _I'm either going to lose my lunch or my heart._

He stayed there on his own couch like a trapped animal. He didn't know which way to go, how to turn, how to hold himself. Didn't know if he should shove the android off — would he even know the difference between the couch and the hard floor? — and go to bed, or just hold out and not wake the damned thing.

In the end he sat there the whole night, til the rude cold crack of dawn intruded with weak rays through the blinds. He hadn't had an inch of sleep and there were bags under his eyes bigger than you could carry on a fucking flight. The bright side was, he had had a lot of time to think, and he spent that time running down every single interaction he'd ever had with this Connor, this Connor that had rudely interrupted his life to say — I was never dead, now please love me.

And he had a feeling he knew how to break the news to this Connor. The trouble was he had no idea how the kid would react to it.

* * *

 

"So… How has your investigation been coming up?" Hank asked him. "Sorry, your investigation of my investigation, I mean."

"It is almost completed, I've about 5% of the data you mined left, and then I'll have completely studied what you've obtained for the last six months."

"Not very quick anymore, are ya? That's great, levels the playing field a little." The detective chuckled.

Connor flattened his pancakes out of spite, to show him what else could be leveled. He'd never knew he was capable of this — this pettiness in him that was like a cocktail of irritation, annoyance, and satisfaction — an emotion so complex and so useless that he didn't know why humans had it at all. What is the evolutionary significance of being able to snidely tell your spouse they've put on a couple of stones? Likely Connor would never know.

He served breakfast food for dinner across the room, where Hank sat with Sumo, ringed by appetizing dog food and less appetizing human food. The twin frames of Connor and Cole looked over the pancakes with distaste.

"So what's your conclusion so far?" Hank asked in between mouthfuls.

"I… Don't know yet."

Hank looked at him, the most shrewd one can look with a mouth full of flour. "You don't know, or you don't want to think about it? Seems like 95% is as much as anyone needs to draw some conclusions."

"I don't know," Connor deflected. "Your facts were all messy, unorganized, illogical. At least 20% of it was recorded just because you wanted to be busy. The possible shipments that might have carried my parts into the city? Really? That was just busywork, Hank."

"Don't try to spin it on me. There was plenty there that was useful and you know it just fine."

Connor did not reply. Hank shoveled down the pancakes as fast as his gullet could take, shoving his chair back and the dish away from him.

"Alright kid. I've got something for you. Nothing related to the investigation, but I got a hunch that the faster you see this the faster you can fucking get it over with." He raised himself and headed to the living room, where he dug a photo-plate out of the documents that he'd brought home from work yesterday.

"You ready? You better sit down for this."

Connor looked at the photo-plates — the biggest was almost 15 inches across, hidden from his view. He was annoyed.

"What game are you playing, Hank?"

"No game, Connor. Relax, alright?" Hank was looking at him with the kind of pity you see in dramas, right before they tell you you have Cancer and you're about to live at the hugely discounted rate of only-three-months-left. Connor didn't like it. His guts twisted with apprehension, at a premonition that he would not like what Hank had to say to him at all.

"Relax," Hank said again. He sat down opposite him, placed the photo-plates on his lap where it was out of his sight. "Now tell me Connor, what do you remember since you were activated?"

"Activated? You mean at the junkyard?"

"No, before that — your very first memories."

"All of them? That's going to take us all night, Hank, if I had to tell you every time you brush dog hair on my pristine uniform to piss me off."

"Stop spinning yarns, you prick, and tell me all the highlights."

"Alright, Hank. If that's what you want. Though I must inform you, this isn't optimal post-dinner activity for me." He was petulant, reluctant. "I was first activated on August 15th, 2038, to rescue a child that had been taken hostage by a deviant android."

"How did that work out?"

"I managed to obtain his trust, and the snipers shot him after he released the girl."

Hank tapped his finger on the table. Sumo was looking at them, one to the other, uncomfortable with so much silence. Off side the TV was playing football again, the weak stuff that Hank didn't follow.

"Alright, our first mission together, what happened there?"

"I found the android that killed Carlos Ortiz. He begged me not to turn him in, and I was… Hesitating. But Miller came up the stairs before I could make my decision."

"And the interrogation?"

"We interrogated him, got his confession. Then he shot himself in the head." Connor frowned at the lieutenant. "Lieutenant, I fail to understand why you're asking me things that you should know yourself. Do you need me to book you an appointment with a local Alzheimer's specialist?"

"Just answer the damned questions, Connor," Hank said. He wasn't smiling now; it wasn't a game to him. "What happened with pigeon-boy? We were chasing him — then what? What happened to him?"

"I don't know — I saved you and he got away. Why would I know I know what happen to him?"

"You saved me?"

"Yes? You were on that ledge, and I chose to save my partner instead of chasing down a valuable clue. You weren't very grateful."

"And the Tracis?"

"They got away too — Hank, are you asking me this just to show me that I'm incompetent? Because that's what you're making me feel right now."

"What about later? You came to harass me when I was just having a fucking drink?"

"We had sex for the first time after that, if that's what you mean," Connor's face scrunched up in involuntary embarrassment. "Otherwise, nothing happened."

There was a pause, more agitated tapping on the table.

"The broadcast tower. Describe it."

"I don't see--"

"Fucking do it!"

"We investigated the broadcast tower. We were trailing the agents of the rebellion. The deviant died. He was in the hallway and they killed him when I was running towards him."

"Who killed him?"

"The SWAT."

"And the girl?"

"What girl?"

"The girl at Kamski's place."

"I… Nothing happened, Hank. I chose not to shoot her — you said as much later on that it was because I had empathy, didn't you? You can't have forgotten it."

"I haven't," Hank snapped. "But I think you have."

"Jesus," He pushed his hair back, wiping at a tired face. "Jesus, I didn't know it was this bad."

"What are you talking about, Hank? Can we stop playing this ridiculous game--"

Hank threw the photo-plates at him. One flew right pass him and landed with a thunk against the cabinets. The rest skidded to a slow halt across the tablecloth, the biggest one right before Connor's hands. With shaky hands, he turned the blue of the plastic around until it faced him.

_Ah, but of course._

On it was a simple reproduction of the archive room — specifically, Hank Anderson's evidence archive for the investigation of the deviant androids. The advance shelving system of the DCPD had spat out the rows of evidence they'd accrued over their long investigation, and the plate itself was dated… July, he noted. Not even two days ago. It'd been a special gift, taken right before Hank had gone home yesterday night.

It did not feel like a gift.

It felt like a blow to his throat, one so hard that it'd smashed right through his chest and he could now neglect the possibility of ever breathing, ever talking again.

Hooked up on their backs in a row were all the androids Connor had clinically dismissed just a moment ago. On the far left was Daniel, the hostage android — with a single bullet hole shot at close range in the middle of his forehead, issued by a handgun. The Tracis were next, shot in the back by the same handgun. Rupert laid half-destroyed by some impact Connor had never seen, never knew about, because last he'd seen the boy had been running off in the distance while he grabbed a heaving Hank onto the ledge—

"This can't be… This can't be right."

"It's right. It's true."

"No. No way."

The next was the JB android from the broadcast tower. He was shot as Connor said he was by SWAT-issued semi-automatic rifles — but he was also missing components, ripped out violently from him while he was still alive, judging from the immortalized Thirium on his uniform — before he'd escape to freedom.

 _I did that?_ Connor asked himself. _I tortured him?_ But he didn't remember — all he remembered was shouting, shoving, pushing the android to admit that he was indeed a deviant. He should remember sinking his hands into someone's pulsing body to yank out their life's blood, shouldn't he?

Or maybe it never—

There was a single extra compartment at the end, one he'd never seen before. A beautiful Chloe model, head bowed from a single shot in the forehead.

"A gift from Kamski," Hank said, quietly. "Came later in the mail just in time for Christmas."

Or maybe it never happened.

"This can't be right, Hank," He said, pushing the photo plate away. The other plates were echoes of the same thing; androids he'd destroyed, people he had hurt. Even a single medical expense slip signed with Reed's illiterate hand and three counts of pink papers complaining about android brutality.

"This can't be true. It… Contradicts everything. Almost none of this happened."

"I don't know, Connor. You've got to tell me — you're the smart one. Which is more real — reality, or these stories that you've been telling me all night about what a fucking saint you are?"

"It's not true." He insisted. He could feel… Wet. There was a trail of unwelcomed tears on his face, and he blinked to stop it, blinked to stop crying. Crying was for liars, for people who were sad or were afraid — he wasn't any of all those. He wasn't. "Someone must have been tampering with the evidence. Someone must have broke into the DCPD--"

"And checked in all these androids that you didn't kill without anyone seeing it? And then they shot them in exactly the right place you might have shot them — with a gun _you_ owned — and then they faked gunshot wounds from six months ago, without anyone in the DCPD saying oi, maybe you should get the fuck outta here, asshole?"

"The DCPD isn't known for its greatest security—"

"Maybe not, but I'd said the human mind is pretty damn hard to tamper with, don't you think? Because unless someone dragged me in to the ER and did a number on my head without me knowing, I've got me and at least five other officers who'd vouch for exactly what you've done and it'll all line up with this right here." He slammed a fist on the plate, cracking it. "And for your fucking information, Miller never went up to the attic -- you threw the suspect down the attic and let him snap an ankle from the fall. Not exactly what I call hesitation, unless you've got a different fucking definition than mine."

"Maybe the cameras are lying too?" He raised himself, tilted one plate, called up footage from a security camera. It was Connor, firing five shots into the JB300 model just to make sure it was very fucking dead. Hank leaned over him, breathing heavy.

"A waste of good bullets," The Connor in the screen could be heard saying.

"But I never said that! It's impossible! I never did that either, never said that — I never raised a hand to kill any of the androids!"

"In the whole investigation? In all the time that you've lived?"

"I came close to, but I never did!"

Hank stared him down, close enough that Connor could see every pore on his face. "Then you've got to tell me, Connor — because I'm stumped to all hell as you are — which is more real: reality, or your memories? Because the way it's looking— I'm not saying that your brain isn't screwed on right — but it isn't righter than _real._ Do you understand what I'm fucking saying to you?"

"I— I don't. I don't understand."

His thoughts were a maze; every path led on and on until it reached an inconvenient truth, so he would shut it down and tried another path. And then it'd reach another nasty thought, so he'd run, and another nasty thought, and another, until he didn't know if there was a logical process in the whole wide world that was illogical enough to support him—

"Ah, Jesus. Jesus. Come on, come here, Connor."

He could feel warm arms encircling him in the blindness of his tears, the scratchiness of a beard, the canvassing texture of jute and rough denim. Could feel himself pulled roughly out of the chair where he'd sat stunned, to be held onto for dear life. Was he being consoled, did he need consoling?

"Fucking hell, Connor. Just let it out."

He couldn't — could only feel the warmth and the tentative, unschooled hand on his back patting him — and then he was bawling; crying, weeping, sobbing, sniveling, wailing bloody murder— for all the synonyms in the world that couldn't describe how much it hurt, how much it scared him, how alone it made him feel — the incongruity of everything he knew of himself versus an uncompromising reality.

"We'll work it out, kid. We'll work it out. We'll figure this one out."

"I don't know who I am," He managed. "If I'm not him— me— what the hell am I? I don't _want_ this to be true, Hank." He could admit that much to himself.

"You're him. You're Connor." Hank insisted, the greatest kindness anyone could do him at the moment. Connor held him tight and wept.

—

 

 


End file.
